Reluctance
by loveshopelost
Summary: Eragon is shocked and surprised when when one day he is approached by a dragon with pleas to save his dying Rider. As he nurses the girl back to health, he hopes he has found himself a powerful ally in the fight against the Empire, but has he? Read
1. Prologue: Desperation

In a copse situated deep in the thickly forested foothills of The Spine, a lone dragon swooped deftly to the ground, his thick silver claws tearing massive rents in the loamy brown earth.

The dragon was very young, not yet old enough to breathe fire, but was exceptionally large for his age; though the copse was fairly sizable, the massive dragon could hardly breathe without scraping his sides against the trunks of the surrounding trees. His smooth, ebony scales gleamed like opals in the bright afternoon sunlight, and the silver spikes that ran down the length of his long neck and covered the tip of his tail shone like finely polished pikes, beautiful and deadly.

The creature was a magnificent sight to behold, but his fireside-story appearance was rendered somewhat horrific by the copious amounts of hot, sticky blood that was spattered all over his body, blood belonging to long dead assailants who had learnt the hard way that his splendid silver claws were as lethal as they were handsome.

Snaking his neck around, he moved his head so it was barely inches away from the limp figure strapped onto his broad back. The figure was that of a young woman, who too was covered in scarlet blood, only the blood that covered her flowed freely from the various puncture wounds scattered over her thin frame.

A dismayed snort escaped the dragon when he realized that, far from clotting, the girl's wounds were as fresh as they had been when the knife had first sunk into her body, confirming the fear he had dared not entertain until it became painfully obvious, as it was now: the blades which had inflicted the young woman's wounds had been coated with a slow acting poison, one which prevented it's victims wounds from clotting. As a result she was loosing much blood too quickly; if the poison did not kill her, she would surely bleed to death first. The dragon noticed for the first time the corpselike pallor his Rider's face has taken on in the harsh afternoon light.

As though by the power of her dragon's penetrating gaze alone, the young woman began to stir in her sleep, gradually coming to. After several long moments, her blue eyes flickered open to meet the black gaze of her handsome dragon, who was much disheartened to find her eyes clouded over with pain. Lifting a thin, white hand, which was somehow much heavier than she could ever remembered it having been before, she ran a long finger down the silver stripe that divided the dragon's handsome ebony face in two.

_I am dying, Vanilor,_ she said softly over their mental link, her weak voice tinged with an eerie sense of calm her dragon found most unsettling—it was as though she had already given up hope, as though her imminent demise was a certain and well known fact.

_No!_ he rejoined sharply, trying valiantly to keep the panic and desperation he felt from reaching her over their connection. _I will find someone to heal you, Ophelia. I will not—cannot let you die._

Seeming not to have heard him, she continued on in the same vein as before: _I am not concerned for myself, Vanilor; it is you who I worry for. You always seem to get into the worst sort of trouble, hatchling._

_Hark who's talking, _said Vanilor, her words drawing a bitter laugh from him.

Shaking his reptilian head, as though to clear his thoughts, he said fiercely, _Without you I do not exist, Ophelia. I will find a way to save you, even if it takes every ounce of strength I have left in me. _

Taking a deep breath Vanilor attempted to calm the maelstrom of emotions he was reeling in. He knew he must be strong, he must keep his head or Ophelia, his beloved Rider, the only thing he had ever known, would be lost to him forever.

Turning abruptly back to Ophelia, he inquired gently, _Are you tied down tightly enough? Speed is of the essence, and I do not wish for you to fall._

_I can stay on, _she assured him, her voice beginning to waver as her consciousness faded. Struggling against the darkness that was pressing down upon her like a weight, she gathered what little strength that remained at her disposal and forced herself to speak: _Where…where is it that you plan on—on going?_

_The Burning Plains. You told me that you heard of another Dragon Rider, a pair who have sworn allegiance to men, elves and dwarves, and that they had recently took part in a battle—on the side of the Varden against the Empire. Someone told you he defeated a Shade. If he can slay a Shade, he can heal you, _Vanilor said, the conviction in his voice absolute.

Starting abruptly, Ophelia said harshly, _No! You cannot go to the Varden, Vanilor! If you go to them, they will bring me back to health just so they can keep us prisoner and force us to fight their war against the Empire for them! If you go to the Varden, they will make us their slaves!_

_If I do not take you to the Varden, you will have no life at all! You will _die_! What would you have me do, Ophelia?_ Vanilor demanded, his voice rising in anger, a hint of his desperation shining through for the first time. _I will do anything it takes to keep you alive—_anything_! Even if it means exposing our existence to the rebel group! And I know that you would do the same for me! So do not waste your energy on arguments and anger; rest and save your strength. You will need it._

With those words, he blocked her from his mind and launched himself into the air, headed in the direction of the Surdan coast, where the Burning Plains, along with his last hope, lay.


	2. Aid

**Please read and if you like, review! I am also open to constructive criticism; this story has been a long time in coming and I would appreciate all the comments and opinions I can get!**

Early morning a week or so after the fateful battle of the Burning Plains found Eragon at the Surdan shore, his feet planted firmly on the grainy sand as he practiced the martial exercises that had been taught to him by his master, Oromis. Saphira watched him avidly from where she sat several meters away.

_You are locking your knees again,_ she observed brightly with the false pretense of aiding him in correcting his posture. She how much it annoyed him when she did that and was not-so-secretly hoping that if she pestered him enough, he would give up his exercises and go flying with her instead.

_Thanks ever so much for noticing, my faithful friend,_ he retorted sarcastically, shooting a glare in her direction.

_Don't mention it, _she replied, unable to keep from laughing at the annoyed expression on his face.

_You know, that really isn't funny._

_It wouldn't be if your reaction weren't so predictable,_ the dragon pointed out, doing nothing to check her rumbling laughter.

Letting out a frustrated exclamation at having lost another battle of wits with a dragon, Eragon threw himself down on the sand, laying flat on his back. He closed his eyes, and listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. The weather had been harsh over the past few days, with rough storms rolling in from over the sea. It was no surprise that on this morning the sun was almost completely blocked out by wall of thick grey clouds.

Eragon heard a mighty booming sound not far off, and thinking it was the sound of thunder, he rose and began to approach Saphira. _We should go back to camp now, or we'll get caught in a storm._

He was caught off guard when he heard the sound repeat in a rhythmic pattern and began to feel a harsh pressure bearing down on him, getting heavier as the sound grew louder and ever nearer.

_It is impossible!_ he cried, whirling about so fast he almost fell over. Throwing his head back, he looked up at the churlish grey sky above.

_Eragon!_ Saphira exclaimed, showing him through their mental link what he already knew instinctively to be above them, but could hardly believe was real. He simply stared as the large black dragon that loomed above them grew closer with each passing second, preparing to land on the beach directly in front of them. The closer the creature came, the clearer he appeared to Eragon; he seemed to be quite a bit bigger than Saphira, though was obviously a less experienced flyer, though the lack of aerial grace could be due to the exhaustion the animal obviously felt.

A sudden, terrible realization—a memory of part of a story he had once heard Brom tell—flashed through his mind and Eragon felt his chest constrict with fear.

_Saphira,_ he demanded suddenly, his voice alarmed, _is it—is he—_

_Nay,_ she said, cutting him off before he could say any more._ He is too small and too young to be Shruiken. He also lacks the ease of movement a dragon as old and experienced as Galbatorix's would possess._

_Though, I wonder… _she continued on thoughtfully to herself before coming back to reality and sharply addressing her Rider once more. _Eragon, he is covered in blood and appears very weak. He has obviously journeyed far. He can mean us no harm—he is in no condition to inflict any._

_Then what could he possibly want?_ Eragon wondered as the dragon came to land a ways away from them, staggering forward as the shock from the impact of his landing washed over his weary body.

Eragon recoiled with horror when he saw up close that the great creature was indeed splashed liberally with dried blood that muted the color of his armor-like scales. The dragon approached them slowly now, his handsome head held aloft despite his exhaustion, and regarded Saphira and Eragon with a deeply penetrating look before slowly lowering his head in a bow. He was now close enough for Eragon to see that a peculiar silver streak ran down the center of the dragon's reptilian face, much like the blaze of a horse, thinning into nothingness between the beast's nostrils. An odd sense of curiosity tugged at the corner of his mind; he had always thought that dragons were solid in color, and wondered if this one had any other odd silver markings that disrupted the perfect blackness of his thick scales.

His thoughts were so occupied by the dragon's physical appearance that he felt shocked when it addressed him.

_I have sought you out to beg your aid. My rider has heard tales of the existence of another Rider, a young human and his mighty sapphire dragon, who have together committed deeds of great strength and bravery. I flew hither to see ascertain for myself whether such a pair existed, and my search has not been in vain. _

_My Rider,_ he continued, gesturing with a flick of his head to the limp form of a girl tied his back, _is grievously wounded. She has lost much blood; it appears that the blades which inflicted her wounds were covered with a poison that prevents clotting. She barely clings to life and is beyond the powers of a regular healer._

The creature seemed to lose all the gravity that his words had held up to this point and added in a broken voice, full of despair: _Please save her. Without you she will die._

Saphira bowed her head gracefully in response to what the dragon had said and answered him, knowing that she and Eragon were of like mind on the matter. _You have our aid. I am Saphira Bright Scales, and this is Eragon Shadeslayer._

_Well met, Saphira Bright Scales and Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Vanilor,_ he said, lowering himself to the ground as Eragon came around to untie the dragon's Rider. He unknotted the ropes that tied the slumped form of the girl to the very crude makeshift saddle and pulled her off the dragon's back. He saw more wounds than he could count covering her frail body and noticed that her wounds still bled afresh almost as though they had been inflicted just moments before. Brushing her pale brown hair from her face, Eragon saw that her skin was as white as chalk and her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her breathing was shallow, and fearing that the girl would die if withheld from care a moment longer, Eragon hurriedly carried her over to Saphira.

_Can you carry us both?_ He demanded of her. _We must get back to camp as fast as we can. I will need Angela's assistance to heal her._

Saphira nodded her assent. As Eragon tied his charge to his saddle and climbed on Saphira's back, he said to Vanilor, _I can tell you have traveled a great distance very quickly and you are tired. You have done well for your Rider, but Saphira and I must go ahead with her now. Find a place to hide and rest, for it may not be safe at camp for you just yet. Saphira will come for you as soon as she is able. _

Then, with confidence he did not feel, Eragon said reassuringly, _Do not fear. She will be well again next you see her._

With those parting words, Saphira launched herself into the air and sped off in the direction of the camp of the Varden, leaving Vanilor behind to watch them fly away, hoping he did the right thing when he put his Ophelia's life in the hands of a strange Dragon Rider and his mount.


	3. Identity

**I just wish to say a huge thank-you to everyone has taken the time to read and review my story so far! You have no idea how much I appreciate it!**

Eragon slid off Saphira's back the moment her feet hit the ground, and hoisting the unconscious body of the girl into his arms, dashed madly down the rows of tents that made up the Varden's camp, yelling for Angela at the top of his voice, oblivious to the bewildered stares of other people milling about.

"Eragon," Arya said, her face creased with concern as she stepped into his path, forcing him to skid to a halt in front of her. "What is wrong? Why do you yell for Angela so?"

Upon seeing the injured girl in his arms, however, Arya's face paled slightly and she quickly led him into a tent where Angela stood speaking with Lady Nasuada.

"Oh dear!" Angela cried as Eragon gently laid the girl down on the nearest cot. Nasuada could do no more than stare on in surprise at the sight before her. "What in—"

Interrupting her, Eragon snapped harshly, "This is no time for exclamations of surprise or standing around with your mouths agape. This girl is badly poisoned—Angela, I need your help. It seems to be a slow acting poison, one which is used to coat the blades of daggers or knives—I think it keeps the wound from healing so if the person is not killed by the poison, they will slowly bleed to death. Have you any herbs, potions, antidotes—_anything_ that could halt the spreading of the poison?"

Angela, whose face had paled when Eragon described the nature of the poisoning, nodded grimly and hurried off to her tent to gather her herbs. Turning to Nasuada and Arya, who stood together a few feet away, Eragon asked, "Can you help me clean her up? She is so covered in blood it is difficult to tell where she is wounded or how deep the gashes are."

Nasuada called for a maidservant and dispatched her quickly with orders to bring as much warm water and clean cloths as she could carry.

"Where did you find this girl, Eragon?" Nasuada questioned after the servant had left, sounding nothing short of perplexed. "And who is she? She can be someone of no mean importance, to have been attacked in such a way!"

Eragon paused as he realized he could hardly answer any questions he may be asked about this girl, for he knew hardly anything of her himself, and of what he did know, he was unsure of exactly how much he was in a position to reveal. The dragon—Vanilor he had called himself—had told him neither his Rider's name nor what had befallen them to cause the girl to be in such a state, he had only said that they had been attacked, which any fool could have ascertained.

_He was too grieved to speak her name, I think, _Saphira said, sticking her blue head into the tent. _He is terrified that she will die. And thank you for leaving me behind as you ran off to yell at our friends because they did not read your mind and jump immediately to your aid. You forget you will need my help as well._

_You have my apologies, Saphira, _he said, and meaning it. _I do need you to lend me your strength. I should check to see if she has broken or sprained anything. Those are all I can heal without Angela._

Eragon was saved the trouble of having to answer Nasuada's questions by the return of the maidservant with the supplies her lady had requested, with which Nasuada and Arya set about cleaning the unconscious girl to the best of their ability. Arya also felt around for broken and dislocated bones so as to preserve the young woman's modesty, directing Eragon to any injuries she found.

Just as he had tended to the last of the breaks and Nasuada and Arya had Eragon's charge reasonably clean, Angela bustled in, looking harassed and worried. She threw a bag full of plants to the ground and started tossing various roots and dried leaves into a mortar before mashing its contents into a paste with a pestle, chanting something Eragon could not hear and occasionally adding a little water to the mixture if she needed it.

Arya, who had been gathering the girl's reddish brown hair back from her face to keep it out of Angela's way, gasped in surprise as she saw what the girl had carefully arranged her hair to hide: The pointed ears of an elf.

"Did you know of this?" she demanded of Eragon, holding the girl's hair back so he could see that, rather than having the pronounced curvature at the top of the ear that marked a human, her ears ended in slight points.

"She is an elf!" he exclaimed with surprise.

"And eager to hide it, too, it seems," Arya remarked thoughtfully.

"Do you recognize her?" Eragon asked.

Arya took a few moments to choose her words carefully before finally saying: "It is hard to tell what she truly looks like when she is but an inch away from death. She is now only a pale shadow of what she is in full health. But I can say with certainty that I have never seen this maid before you brought her here today."

Eragon looked at Arya searchingly. He knew she could not be lying, for she spoke in the Ancient language, but her tone and careful choice of words made him certain she was purposely leaving something out.

"An elf is not all she is," Nasuada remarked stiffly, showing them the silver _gedwëy ignasia_ on the girl's right palm, the only physical remnant of her first contact with her dragon.

"An elf and a Rider," Nasuada continued on softly, seeming absorbed with shock at the identity of this mysterious girl, and perhaps the possibilities her discovery could mean.

"Where did you find her Eragon?" Nasuada whispered softly a few moments later, looking up into his face. Then her countenance hardened a bit as she added, "And tell the truth."

"Her dragon, a black male not yet old enough to breathe fire, brought her to me while I was at the shore this morning," he admitted. "They were both covered in blood and had traveled a long distance to find us. He asked for Saphira and me to save her; he knew she was dying and would soon pass beyond healing if not tended to soon. He allowed us to take her back to camp while he remained by the caves in the cliffs until Saphira came for him."

"I am curious as to what you were planning to do when you sent for him, Eragon," Nasuada said through clenched teeth. "Let her leave? Have you any idea what sort of threat she poses to everything we have fought so hard for? She could be captured by the Empire and used against us! Galbatorix already has found himself one Rider in your brother! Could you imagine the advantage it would give him were he to acquire another?"

"I did not think—"

"That much is quite obvious," the queen said with anger, a flush darkening her deep skin.

"The girl was dying, Nasuada," Eragon snapped, his anger quickly rising to match hers. "I could not stand by and let another Rider die knowing I had the power to prevent it! If you think so poorly of my judgment, perhaps you should release me from your service. The gods know I have enough to deal with without being scolded and second-guessed by you."

"In any event," came a loud interruption from Angela, who had been tending to the girl while Arya, Nasuada and Eragon had looked on and puzzled over her identity, "she will not be able to leave right away. The poison was a powerful one, and its effects are such that her wounds cannot be healed by magic, but must knit naturally. And when she regains consciousness, which could be anywhere from a few hours to several days, she will be too weak to go anywhere for some time. She is lucky. What has happened to her would kill the strongest of warriors, no matter what their race or strength. I will be back in a few hours to tend to her again. Keep someone with her at all times and report any changes, for good or ill, to me."

With those words, Angela exited to the tent off in search of a hot meal and rest, leaving Eragon and Nasuada to their argument with Arya as referee.


	4. Feline

**I apologize for the brevity of this chapter. When I write a story, it is usually all contained in one large Word document several thousand words long, so when (or if) I decide to post it online, I must go back and not only revise, but determine where to split the story up into proper chapters. However, I promise that the next two chapters, which are already written and beta'd (by me) will be considerably longer. With that, I hope you enjoy reading the following chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! Don't forget to review if you have a spare moment!**

Eragon sat bunched uncomfortably into a poorly made wooden camp chair next to his unconscious charge where she lay on her cot. Despite his exhaustion, he found himself unable to fall asleep. Instead he stared as though in a trance, his eyes fixed on the wall of the tent opposite him, watching as the flames of a few scarce, dying camp fires cast rapidly moving shadows over the canvas. Saphira, who had insisted on assisting him in watching over the ailing Rider, lay just outside the tent, her breath softly raising and lowering the flap.

It had been over a day since they had brought the girl to camp, but instead of improving, she had worsened, falling into a deep fever, which Angela assured him was perfectly normal. The witch claimed that it was just the girl's body's way of ridding itself of the poison and other toxins, but that did little in the way of comforting him. In fact, it only agitated him further. This worry was actually what had led to his offer to keep watch over the girl at night, the only time he was free of Nasuada and her counselors, out of some irrational fear that, were he not near to her, she would inexplicably die. Not only did this mysterious girl's life hang in the balance, but the future of Alagaësia with it. The appearance of another Dragon Rider could change the tide of the war against Galbatorix in the Varden's favor.

Eragon shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. The girl was barely alive and he already had her and her dragon partnered up with him and Saphira, ridding the world of all its ills.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, the girl bolted upright in bed, her eyes wide. She looked around her wildly, her resemblance to a trapped panther increasing manifold with consciousness. It was the first time he had seen her eyes; they were indeed the most magnificent he had ever seen in another living being. They resembled those of a cat in everything except color. On closer inspection, however, he saw that they were clouded with what looked to be unbearable pain.

"Vanilor!" she cried out, her voice filled with a terror that broke Eragon's heart. "Help me! I cannot feel you!"

Eragon immediately understood of what it was she spoke. She was unable to feel her dragon's presence in her mind and she was calling upon him to ease her pain. Placing his hand gently on her shoulder, he spoke thus:

"He is safe and well, _Argetlam_, as are you. He has brought you to be healed. You are very sick but my dragon and I shall make you well again."

"I—must...see him," she said laboriously, as though each word physically pained her.

"You shall be reunited soon, but first you must rest," Eragon replied gently, considering whether or not he should call for help—the girl was _not_ supposed to wake up; Angela had given her a sleeping potion made with her most powerful herbs so she could sleep through the worst of the pain and fever.

Saphira, sensing Eragon's distress, poked her reptilian head into the tent and gently nudged the girl back down into the bed with her nose. _You are safe here, child_, the sapphire dragon told her soothingly. _Sleep now, and worry not for Vanilor. He will be with you soon enough._

The girl's eyes began to drift shut, but before she fell back into a fevered sleep, she managed to softly say, "I….I am Ophelia."

_A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,_ a new voice opined slyly. Turning around, Eragon saw Solembum, a werecat and Angela's constant companion, enter the tent, flicking his bushy brown tail absently behind him. Usually Solembum's presence, and requisite comments, did not bother Eragon, but in his current state of agitated, self-imposed sleep deprivation, he found the werecat nothing short of a bothersome nuisance.

_I think that is the kindest thing I have ever heard you say of another living thing, _Saphira remarked sourly as she pulled her head out of the tent and settled back down to sleep.

Ignoring the dragon's comment, Solembum jumped onto the rickety cot and walked regally up to the pillows where he settled softly down next to Ophelia's head, purring like a house cat.

_Yes, very beautiful indeed,_ he continued on as he carefully examined Ophelia's face from his vantage point, his expression thoughtful. _It is not everyday a creature such as she crosses my path. She is positively cat-like._

_Be careful, Solembum, _Eragon warned, his tone matching Saphira's in sourness when he heard just how much the werecat's reflections of Ophelia's physical appearance perfectly mirrored his own. _If you continue to talk of her a manner such as this, people will think you have a soft spot for her. You will risk your reputation as a mysterious, standoffish werecat._

Solembum seemed to think Eragon's remark unworthy of acknowledgement and replied instead with, _I have come to watch the cat-girl for Angela. You need not stay, as I am sure you do not find the task of patient-minding as pleasurable as sparring and fighting._

_Saphira and I are perfectly capable of keeping an eye on her ourselves,_ Eragon said, indignant at the werecat's insinuation, which stung all the more because he no longer had a sword to fight with. _And she is not a cat-girl! She is a Dragon Rider! _

_Suit yourself,_ Solembum replied nonchalantly, but instead of leaving, he merely closed his eyes and continued the swishing motion of his tail, falling fast asleep in a matter of moments, leaving Eragon with no choice but to do the same.


	5. Reflections

**Another huge thank you to all who have taken the time to read and review my story! I greatly appreciate it and hope you continue to enjoy it!**

Ophelia breathed a gentle sigh of relief as she slipped out of the light linen tunic-dress she wore before sliding haltingly into the small pool of hot fresh water she had come to bathe in by the ocean, hissing as the warm water ran over her slowly healing wounds.

She had been at the Varden's camp nigh on three weeks now and she finally had her feet firmly planted on the road to recovery. She was now well enough to move about, and had convinced Angela to let her go off for a while with Vanilor on the condition Solembum went along as well to keep an eye on her. Ophelia had taken a liking to the mysterious werecat, who showed her a partiality second only to that he had for Angela, and so had not objected to his coming. In fact, she rather suspected Solembum himself had instigated that particular 'compromise' as a way to get so far away from the refugee camp, that he could no longer see, hear, or smell it.

Despite the fact she had gotten her way, however, Ophelia could not help but feel slightly annoyed that she was being watched so closely by Angela, whose vigilance went far beyond a healer watching over her charge. Ophelia rather suspected that the frizzy-haired witch was under the orders of the Varden to make certain she was never too far from camp; she wondered idly exactly how much trouble Angela would be in when the Varden found out the witch had let her go to the coast on her own. Somehow she doubted Solembum's presence and the fact that she was to weak to attempt to flee would in any way assuage the rebel leaders' anger.

_Having someone look after you is for the best,_ Vanilor remarked wryly to her, momentarily interrupting her train of thought. _You are far too stubborn. If you had your own way you would go out and get yourself killed after the witch and Rider worked so hard to bring you back to health. While being in captivity is rather bothersome, I cannot say I mind a break from the constant traveling I underwent to bring you here._

Ophelia nodded blankly in reply, not having paid much attention to what it was her dragon had said.

She had yet to meet the Lady Nasuada, the young woman who served as queen of the Varden, but it was not as though she had been purposely seeking the rebel queen out, either. She supposed that she most likely had Angela to thank for keeping the Varden's queen and its various leaders an arm's length away from her while she underwent the exhaustive process of coming back from death's door. The witch could be rather fearsome when she felt the desire, something Ophelia had learnt the hard way when she refused to do more than pick at her food for the third day in a row after regaining consciousness. Angela watched over her like a hawk and nothing—absolutely nothing—missed the witch's notice, which was probably the reason no attempts, covert or otherwise, had been made on the Varden's end to see her, at least not during her waking hours.

Which brought about the subject that unnerved her more than anything else: She had heard strange whispers that the Shade slayer, the other Dragon Rider, who often spent all his time with his queen and her advisers during the day, stayed in her tent during the night. She had no idea if this was actually true, for Angela always fed her a strong sleeping draught before bed so she would sleep the whole night through. The witch was always going on about how rest was one of the most important things she needed to regain her old strength. Not that Ophelia was in any hurry. Now that she was well on her way to recovery, she expected to be accosted any day with demands to know not only who she was and where she came from, but for the help of her and her dragon in ridding the world of Galbatorix and every other evil it possessed.

Solembum walked lazily over to the edge of the small pool and, after an exaggerated stretch and yawn, lay down in a ray of sunlight and closed his eyes.

_This is very relaxing_, the werecat opined with an air of satisfaction

The maiden laughed softly at his remark. Deciding to follow the werecat's lead, Vanilor found a large expanse of flat rock a few yards away from Ophelia's pool and stretched his massive frame out upon it, letting the sun dance on his handsome sable scales. Ophelia settled back into the warm water, closing her eyes and letting out a deep breath. She could not remember the last time she had felt so peaceful, so at ease…so safe. She wanted to seize the opportunity and savor the moment, for she knew it would not last, nor was it guaranteed to ever come again.

Some time later, Ophelia climbed slowly out of the pool, wincing as her healing wounds stretched with the movement of her body. Stumbling over to the rock where she had put the few things she had brought with her, she grabbed her tunic and pulled it quickly over her head. It clung to her damp body, displaying the damaging effect being brought back from the verge of death had on one's body.

She examined her reflection critically in a puddle. Her finely shaped face was gaunt and pale, but some color was beginning to return to her cheeks as she slowly regained strength. She frowned thoughtfully when she saw the wet hair she had tucked unconsciously behind her pointed ears. She had always hid her ears behind her hair, for they were the only obvious sign of her elfin heritage, though she supposed she had no need to do that here. She knew they had seen her ears when the Shade Slayer first brought her to the camp, unconscious and dying.

Rearranging her hair so it covered her ears once more anyway, Ophelia continued her examination. She could see that she had lost a considerable amount of weight; though she had always been slim, she now looked so thin it was almost painful to continue looking at her reflection. Despite Angela's constant coaxing, she just had not had much of an appetite in the beginning. However, once the Shade Slayer's dragon had brought Vanilor to her, her appetite had increased considerably and she was now eating all of her meals, much to Angela's satisfaction.

Lingering signs of sickness aside, Ophelia was as beautiful as she had ever been, even if she did not think so. Her light, chestnut brown hair was regaining the luster it had possessed in earlier, happier days, and was incredibly long, hanging down to the small of her back. Despite Angela's motherly warnings that her long locks would ignite if she leaned over a fire, she had refused adamantly to allow the witch to trim it at all. Gareth and Sophia, the couple who had taken her in as a child, had always told her how they loved her luxuriant hair, and for that reason she could not bring herself to chop it off. Her lips, which had been cracked and bloody when first she was brought to the camp, were now soft and petal pink. Also, Ophelia's unusual blue cat eyes had begun to brighten, losing their cloudiness with each passing day.

Grabbing a small earthen-ware jar, Ophelia began applying a foul smelling white salve to her wounds as she softly sung an old lullaby. Vanilor, eyes closed and head resting peacefully on the ground, began to hum along with the song, much to Solembum's annoyance.

The three creatures, elf, dragon and werecat, became so involved in the sound of the ocean, the gorgeous sunshine and Ophelia's song, they did not notice the approach of Eragon and Saphira. Landing rather softly many yards away from them, Saphira closed her massive wings and allowed her Rider to slide off her back. Ophelia did not notice Eragon's approach until she heard the telltale crunch of gravel under the thick soles of his boots. Standing up quickly, she whirled around to face him. Solembum, rather annoyed by the intrusion, jumped to his feet and arched his back, hissing like an angry housecat.

Eragon, however, did not seem to register Solembum's rudeness. He was much too busy looking at Ophelia, taking in her tall, slender frame that was quite visible through the thin material of her tunic.

He felt his stomach constrict with an odd feeling he could not quite place as he just stood there and watched her. Part of him was horrified at how bony she appeared when awake, while the rest of him was amazed at how the light of the sun silhouetted her body, giving her the appearance of a breathtaking golden statue….

_Eragon! _Saphira said sharply, breaking into his thoughts. _You are staring._

Eragon felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment as he diverted his gaze, mumbling some incoherent apology at having intruded upon her privacy.

Solembum, still annoyed, replied rather rudely, _you know, I have heard that in some cultures they poke a man's eyes out for peeping at a woman whilst she bathes._

_Hush, Solembum, _Ophelia said, and to the immense surprise of all, the werecat actually listened, albeit reluctantly. Walking away with his tail sticking straight up in the air in indignation, he muttered to himself about how very ill-used he was by Riders and their overgrown reptilian lapdogs.

"I—I should go," Eragon stammered, his mortification growing with each passing second, cursing his unique power of always finding new and unique ways of humiliating himself.

"You do not have to leave," Ophelia said as she grabbed a blanket from a nearby rock and wrapped it around her in the hope it would help relieve some of the tension. The moment the words left her mouth, though, she had to fight the urge to smack herself. What was she thinking, inviting this man to spend time with her? She knew exactly why he was here and wanted no part of it.

Unfortunately, however, Eragon had already to accepted her invitation and arranged himself cross-legged on the same rock she had been perched on only moments before, obviously intending for her to sit across from him. As she sat, her hair slid forward and she immediately pushed it back into place in front of her ears, though she noticed Eragon frown at this instinctive action. Instead of saying anything, however, he instead turned suddenly to Saphira, and said aloud so all could hear, "I know you have not been able to hunt as much as you would like because Queen Nasuada has required our presence so often of late. Perhaps you should go now, while you have the time. It is such a lovely day, and Vanilor could go with you."

Saphira, pleased at the proposal, turned to her ebony counterpart to await his answer. Vanilor, however, appeared to have absolutely no intention of leaving Ophelia's side, not even to eat.

_Go with Saphira, Vanilor, _Ophelia told him gently, sensing his concern. _It has been quite some time since you were hunting. I can spare you for a few hours._

_I do not want to leave you alone with him, _Vanilor told her pointedly. _You know as well as I what he has come for._

_I will be _fine_, you overgrown bat! I will not have you starve to death on my account. Now away with you! The sooner you go, the sooner you shall return._

When he merely looked at her, she added, with a laugh, _You have my word that I will sing to you upon your return, you silly creature. Now go!_

Vanilor shook his head in exasperation but still turned away and launched his large winged body into the air.

_Happy hunting, hatchling,_ she called after him as he and Saphira flew away.


	6. Loyalty

**Another huge thank you to all the people have taken the time out of their busy days to review my little story! It is greatly appreciated! Also, I confess to some concern in posting this chapter as there is a bit more conflict here than has been in the last five. However, despite this, I hope you continue to enjoy my story as you have been doing! **

**Regards,**

**Love's Hope Lost**

The two Riders sat in an awkward silence for a several long minutes as they watched their dragons fly off in the direction of a nearby forest until they became two indistinguishable pinpricks against the sky.

Finally Eragon, who was seemingly unable to keep himself from speaking for a single second longer, burst out, rather lamely, with, "Vanilor is a handsome dragon."

Ophelia gave him an odd look from beneath raised brows before replying slowly, "As is Saphira, I am sure; though I am afraid I have seen only two dragons in my life and thus cannot be sure on any opinion on such magnificent and complicated creatures."

More silence followed this exchange. Then, making another attempt at conversation, Eragon said with genuine brightness, "It is good to see you up and about."

"I owe it all to you," Ophelia said, an enigmatic expression on her face the appeared to be somewhat of a cross between a grimace and a smile.

"No, Angela is the one who—" Eragon began, but Ophelia cut him off.

"It is you who brought me to her. You could have left me to die, but you did not."

"I could not have done that," Eragon said quietly, looking away.

"The world is not as good and generous as you are, Shade Slayer. Many in your position would have left me to die, or killed me themselves."

With a pained expression, Ophelia continued, "I know that I have not tried very hard to seek out you or your dragon since my recovery, and I apologize if I have slighted either of you in any way; I simply assumed you and your companion were too busy to hear the trifling thanks of a young girl and her dragon."

She paused for brief moment before going on:

"Be that as it may, Vanilor and I owe my life to you and Saphira. So on both our behalves, I offer _you_ _and your dragon—_" Ophelia said, putting special emphasis on the words to make her meaning clear— "our gratitude and our services, for whenever you require the debt to be repaid."

"That is not necessary—" Eragon protested.

"Yes, it is," Ophelia said simply, interrupting him once more. "I owe you a life debt. I would be remiss in allowing it to go unacknowledged."

"I do not want anything of the sort," Eragon returned, obviously not intending to give in easily.

"Come now," Ophelia said with a wry smile, "Everyone wants something; it is only a matter of to what degree and to what lengths they will go to get it."

A frown crossed Eragon's handsome face at her rather harsh reflection on the human race before being replaced by a sudden thought.

"Well there is something I wish to know…." Eragon began. Ophelia merely raised her thin golden eyebrows at him, prompting him to continue. "Who—who are you?"

Laughing at the question with a lightness she did not feel, she replied, in a tone full of irony, "Surely you must now the answer to that by now—I am Ophelia, a Dragon Rider, like yourself, and an elf, like the dark haired elfin diplomat I have seen around camp."

"That is not what I meant," Eragon said, annoyance evident in his tone.

"I know," she said quietly. "You meant for me to tell you of my past, what led to me sitting here before you, a prisoner of the Varden, and what Vanilor and I intend for the future."

"You are not a prisoner of the Varden," Eragon said sharply, his face coloring.

Ophelia laughed again, only this time it was a cold, humorless laugh.

"Do you honestly believe that if I were well enough to leave, I would be allowed to go?" she demanded incredulously. "You are too good, Shade Slayer, and it blinds you to the harsh realities of life, one of which being that even the 'good' side keeps prisoners."

"Do not speak to me of harsh realities!" Eragon snapped angrily, stung by her words. "I have seen more than my fair share."

"Yes…yes I daresay you have," Ophelia said quietly, a sudden feeling of sadness rushing over her as she thought of surrogate parents, Gareth and Sophia, once more. "But that does not make them any easier to accept."

Ophelia paused for a moment before continuing on in a stronger, angrier voice then before, "You know as well as I that your queen will never let me leave this place. Vanilor and I together are the most dangerous force in this futile war you fight, for we have declared no loyalties, unlike you and your brother. We have the power to tip the scales any which way we choose, and for that reason we are feared. I cannot possibly give you any declaration that would please you or the three races of men, elves and dwarves you serve, so here I tell you this: I claim loyalty to no one but Vanilor, and he to me."

Eragon sat silent, stunned by her small speech, before recovering enough to reply, in a voice as offended as hers was angry, "Do you wish for Galbatorix to continue his reign of terror over the people of Alagaesia? As Riders it is our duty to protect the world from such evils!"

"You fool!" Ophelia spat out in a low, scathing voice. "Such noble ideas of bravery and selfless valor you possess! Do you honestly believe that the people you are risking your life to free will thank you for your sacrifice?! If so I will disillusion you this very instant: They think you are a radical rebel and wish for you to be silenced because you threaten to turn the life they know on its very head! The simpleton masses may claim to hate the king, but would rather be oppressed by a tyrant than suffer the hardships and uncertainty of a revolution! They lack the sense to see that such a sacrifice will make the bleak future they face one of light and hope. They care for nothing—_nothing _other than themselves and their lives in the present. The selfishness of the ignorant masses will be their own ruin, and no one, not even you, Rider though you may be, can stop it! _I despise them_, and if you had _any_ sense at all you would scorn them as well!"

"Enough!" Eragon said as he leapt to his feat in anger. Ophelia, unwilling to allow him to tower over her, rose as well, dropping the blanket that was wrapped around her so that it lay in a puddle at her feet. Eragon simply stared at her, his cheeks a mixture of rage and mortification, most likely at her current state of dress, but she realized that she did not even care.

Instead she stepped closer so she and Eragon were standing inches apart, and, tilting her head back slightly, looked up into Eragon's eyes and said as caustically as she could, "You know I speak the truth or my words would not affect you so. Give up your childish idea that good always prevails over evil, Shade Slayer, for it will only bring you pain."

Eragon reached out and grabbed hold of her narrow upper arms just above her elbows with a grip so tight it would leave bruises, and, pulling her close to him so their faces almost touched, said through clenched teeth, "I said _'enough.'"_

Staring up into his handsome face, Ophelia suddenly felt afraid—but not that he would hurt her. It was the strange emotion in his face, something as fierce as anger but, somehow, not as sharp, that struck fear into her heart.

Hearing the loud, flapping sound of wings that signified the return of Saphira and Vanilor, Ophelia felt Eragon release her and she immediately stepped away from him, rubbing her arms absently.

Vanilor, who had seen the way Eragon had been holding Ophelia and the look of mingled pain and fear on her face, could hardly check his fury. He pushed Ophelia behind him before growling angrily and snapping his teeth at Eragon. Much to Eragon's surprise, Saphira just looked on and did nothing.

The menacing black dragon stared down at Eragon with a look of utter contempt in his large black eyes, as though contemplating whether or not he wanted to rip him to shreds.

_You are not worth it,_ Vanilor said finally, his voice low and full of malice. With a snort of contempt, the black and silver dragon turned away from him and said to Ophelia, in a voice that brooked no argument, _Gather your things. I am taking you back to camp. You have been gone for far too long; Angela will be worried._

Nodding quickly, Ophelia pulled on a nearby pair of breeches, gathered up her belongings and called out to Solembum before climbing up barefoot into the saddle Eragon had made for her and left as a gift when she was well enough to ride her dragon again.

The werecat pranced jauntily back into camp, ignoring the thick tension amongst the creatures surrounding him. Jumping in front of Ophelia and settling comfortably into her lap, he said primly to Vanilor, _We may go now, I am quite ready_.

Snorting in exasperation, Vanilor launched himself into the air with his powerful back legs, leaving Eragon and Saphira on the rocks far below him.

Eragon, still feeling extremely angry from his altercation with Ophelia and having to vent his spleen on someone, whirled about to face Saphira and snapped angrily, _Thanks for your support back there, Saphira. It's good to know that whenever I am being threatened by another dragon you've always got my back._

The sapphire dragon gave him an arch look before replying, _From looks of what just happened, I may have let him knock you around a bit._

"I did nothing to her!" Eragon yelled aloud, looking away; he found he could not look into Saphira's penetrating gaze and tell a direct falsehood.

_Eragon, _Saphira said quietly, _you and I both no that it is me who you are angry with._

_Oh really?_ Eragon demanded sharply, his head snapping around so quickly he gave himself whiplash. _And would you mind sharing how you came to that conclusion with the rest of us?_

Saphira sighed. Eragon seemed to have no intention of making this conversation easy.

_Tell me what happened between the two of you, _she said, before adding as a hasty afterthought, _And do not say 'nothing', for I know it is not true. _

_Oh, Saphira, I feel like such an idiot!_ Eragon exclaimed, giving up on his anger and burying his face in his hands in despair._ I never even considered the possibility that she would not wish to help us battle the Empire, not seriously! She is a Rider—and an elf, for goodness' sake! You would think if she felt no duty to save the people of Alagaesia as a Dragon Rider she would at least feel obligated to seek revenge on behalf of her ancestors!_

_I have a feeling that none of the things that motivate others apply to Ophelia or Vanilor,_ Saphira said quietly in response.

_So what do we do?_ Eragon demanded, obviously at a loss for any plausible course of action. _Angela cannot keep Nasuada away from her forever! Now that Ophelia is not longer battling for her life, the queen will demand to see her, to question her. Somehow I have a feeling the wrath I just met is only preview of what Nasuada will come up against! It is obvious that though she has never met her, Ophelia already hates her and thinks of her as her jailor! What an awful mess this has turned out to be!_

Shaking his head in disgust, Eragon began to pace along the flat expanse of rock he and Ophelia had been sitting on together no less than five minutes ago with extreme agitation.

_I think the most important thing for us to do right now is not give up, _Saphira said, her voice thoughtful_. We must give Ophelia and Vanilor time…keep in mind the ordeal they have been through. I have been around them both enough to know that while they would never admit it, they are scared and confused. And who could blame them? They have no idea what is going to happen to them._

_Like you and I _do Eragon demanded his voice incredulous.

_No, Eragon. You and I are different,_ Saphira said gently._ We know where we belong. We know what our purpose is, and are resolved to see it through to the end, for better or for worse._

Eragon could not help but acknowledge the truth of Saphira's words.

_How did you get so wise?_ Eragon asked as he rubbed her forehead affectionately.

_I hatched that way_, Saphira said, obviously pleased by his words.

_Come, let us head back to camp before Nasuada gets worried and sends out a search party,_ Eragon said as he climbed onto Saphira's back. As soon as he was secure in the saddle, she took to the air in the direction of the Burning Plains and the endless duties that went along with being a Dragon Rider.


	7. Plans

**A slightly shorter chapter this time. I am afraid updates may not be as frequent as they have hitherto been due to a slight personal crisis and my having to wade through the rest of the Word document in which all of what I have written of this story is contained. That said, I hope you enjoy the following chapter, and if you have a spare moment, do not forget to review as I love getting feedback on my writing! Also, in the next chapter you can expect a guest appearance by Eragon's cousin Roran, so stay tuned!**

**Love's Hope Lost**

Back at the Varden's camp on the Burning Plains, Ophelia sat with her long legs folded underneath her in the elfish fashion on her cot as Angela fussed over her, examining her slowly fading stab wounds.

"I knew I should never have allowed you to go off by yourself for an entire afternoon!" Angela said as she clucked over her patient like a mother hen. "You overexerted yourself—just look at you, you are all flushed!"

Ophelia's face turned an even deeper shade of red at the witch's words.

_If only you knew,_ she thought wryly to herself. She was in quite a black humor. On the way back to camp, Vanilor had demanded to know what had taken place between her and the Shade Slayer on the rocks, but Ophelia had refused to tell him. She felt so embarrassed by their entire exchange. After all, she had promised Vanilor she would be fine if he left her alone for a while, and had gone and proven that assertion to be completely and utterly false.

Vanilor had told her he was never leaving her again, even if he had to carry her in his claws with him wherever he went, and Ophelia was secretly relieved by this. She did not wish to be alone with any of the people in this entire camp ever again. She had to find a way to get out of here.

"What in heaven's name happened here?" Angela demanded loudly, her voice startling her charge out of her reverie. Shaking her head slightly to clear her mind, Ophelia saw with trepidation that she had forgotten to hide the bruises Eragon had left on her arms when he had grabbed her down by the rocks.

"It is nothing," Ophelia said quickly, racking her brain to come up with a plausible excuse. When she failed to find one, she said, somewhat lamely, "I accidentally hit it on the rocks."

"Toad stools!" Angela exclaimed, obviously not believing the girl's excuse, which Ophelia had known she would not. "If that were the case, then there would not be a matching bruise on your other arm! Do you take me for a fool?"

_That is supposed to a trick question, right? _came Ophelia's sour mental response to Angela's question, feeling none too kindly towards the witch at the moment. Why couldn't everyone just leave her alone?

"It is highly improbable to injure both arms in the same manner by accident!"

_Gee, you think?_

"This could only be caused by someone grabbing you."

_I cannot believe you have figured that one out all on your own. This must be a proud moment for you. _

"Now what happened? And try the truth this time."

"I told you, I hit it on the rocks. I appreciate your concern, Angela, truly I do, but I really am very exhausted. May I please just rest now?"

"Yes, child," Angela said softly, her anger seeming to melt as she covered Ophelia with a blanket as the girl lay down. "I will be back later with some food and more medicine."

"I look forward to it," Ophelia said sourly from beneath the blankets.

Angela smiled.

"Sleep soundly, my dear."

The frizzy haired witch left the tent and had not gone but a few paces before she ran right into Eragon, who smelled strongly of salt water and sunshine. Remembering that Eragon had stopped by her tent earlier in the day to ask where Ophelia and Vanilor had went, and had then proceeded to fly off in the direction where Angela had said they would be, the witch fired up at once.

"You!" she barked, and much to his surprise, she dragged him roughly by the scruff of his neck to her tent down the row a ways.

"Angela, what do you think you are doing?!" Eragon demanded with confusion and surprise as she rounded on him in fury.

"I may as well ask you the same question!"

"What are you talking about?!"

"What in all of Alagaësia could possibly make you think you could manhandle a young girl who has barely recovered from being gravely poisoned?!" the witch shrieked in a shrill voice, her frizzy hair crackling.

"Wait—what?"

Angela, taking Eragon's look of surprise as a denial, continued on angrily, "Do not look at me with that shocked expression on your face! I know you went after her when she flew off this morning, I saw you go with my own two eyes! Matching bruises on each of her arms the size of a man's hands! And then some cock and bull story about accidentally running into a rock! The two of you must think me some sort of simpleton, the way you are insulting my intelligence! Such disrespect as I have never encountered in all my life—"

Not feeling particularly up to listening to one of Angela's long and ridiculous rants, Eragon cut her off before she could get into her stride. "Angela, if Ophelia said she fell, then she fell, and it is rather an insult to her credibility to suggest she is lying. Now unless you have anything else you wish to discuss, I must be off; I am a busy man."

"Impudent child! If you are a man, then I am a toad, and as we all know, toads do not exist!" Angela cried, but he had already left her standing alone in her tent, yelling at no one.

Eragon called for Saphira as he stalked angrily towards the edge of camp, hoping a good, long fly with his dragon would be just what he needed to clear his head and cool his anger. Just as he had reached his destination, however, he was intercepted yet again, this time by Arya. After they had dispensed with the customary pleasantries, Arya wasted no time in getting down to the reason she had sought him out.

"Eragon, you have been gone from _Ellesmera_ for quite some time now," Arya began quietly. "You are needed there by your master to continue your training and I know that there is much you need to discuss with him that cannot wait, nor would it be wise to commit such things to a letter."

Eragon felt himself stiffen at her words. He knew that she spoke of Murtagh and Thorn, and while he appreciated the wisdom of Arya's words, this was the last subject he wished to discuss at the present moment, taking into account everything he had been through in the past few hours. Taking care to leave the edge out of his tone, he replied as blithely as he could,

"I certainly appreciate your position, and Saphira and I would be most happy to return to _Ellesmera_ and Master Oromis, Arya _svit-kona_, but in light of the way—ah—circumstances currently stand, it is quite impossible for me to do so. My presence is needed here as well."

"I know what it is that keeps you here," Arya replied, obviously not intending to take 'no' for an answer. "That is why I suggest you bring the _Shur'tugal_ and _Skulblaka_ back to Ellesmera and your master."

Eragon's brows shot up underneath the fringe of his dark blonde hair as he regarded Arya with an expression of extreme disbelief. Taking the time to choose his words carefully before speaking, he finally said, "It is not quite as simple as you suggest Arya _svit-kona_. I think Ophelia and Vanilor will prove themselves quite resistant to any plan of the sort. And even if they were to consent to accompany me, there is no way I could bring her before your people. She may be elf-kind, but she has proven by her behavior to have never lived among them. She does not know their ways and customs, and I highly doubt she has any desire learn them. She is very wild and lacks deference for anyone aside from her dragon and that silly creature Angela keeps as a companion. I fear her untamed manners will insult any elf we come across in the most acute of ways, more so because she is one than if she were simply a human!"

A small smile flitted across Arya's face. Eragon was struck for the first time by how alike Arya and Ophelia's features were. While far from identical, there was a distinct similarity in the angular cheekbones and pointed, fox-like chin (though the latter was much more pronounced in Ophelia). Then again, all elves shared a lean, cat-like appearance. Shaking his head slightly to clear his head of such odd ruminations, he returned his focus to what Arya was saying to him.

"I do not believe her to be so wild as you portray her, Eragon. She will not object to learning the ways of other cultures, only to swearing allegiance to them, which is not required of her at the moment. She will do just fine; I daresay she will even surprise you. But the fact remains that the Burning Plains is too vulnerable a place for _either_ of you to remain here much longer, and Nasuada will never consent to let Ophelia leave unless it is with you for _Du Weldenvarden_. If given the choice between remaining here with the Varden and going to Ellesmera, I know she will travel with you; to her it is the lesser of two evils."

"While that may be so, let us forget Ophelia's capriciousness momentarily and move on to a greater problem that stands before this proposed journey: securing Nasuada's consent. Somehow I doubt my lady will agree to allow Ophelia and Vanilor to pass beyond her control, as will assuredly be the case if they are taken to the elves," Eragon pointed out. He did not much relish the thought of being the one to suggest to Nasuada that he leave the Burning Plains on cross-continental dash to Ellesmera with an ornery and ailing Dragon Rider and her taciturn steed in tow. Actually, when he thought about it, he would rather _suggest_ such a trip to Nasuada that actually _go_ on it. Though he would never admit it to Arya (or anyone else, for that matter), the real reason he was making every excuse under the sun to avoid going on this journey was because the prospect of spending any large amount of time alone with Ophelia was more daunting than even the most unpleasant task he could think of.

"All that I require of you is that you prepare yourself, Ophelia and the dragons for your journey; you are going at dawn's first light tomorrow morning. Leave the rest—including Lady Nasuada—to me."

Eragon grudgingly nodded his assent. He watched as the elfin diplomat headed off in the direction of the rich, tapestry hung tents in which Lady Nasuada resided. Heaving a sigh, Eragon turned and fled from the camp as quickly as his legs would take him so he could not be detained from Saphira any longer. He had a feeling he had a rough several days ahead of him.


	8. Confrontation

**Hello everyone! I just wanted to say another huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review _Reluctance_ thus far! I really appreciate your kind words and your criticism, it is much appreciated and has been very helpful! Also, I want to apologize for the length of time it took for me to post this chapter, but I wanted to make sure I was completely happy with it before I posted it. That said, I hope you enjoy!**

**Love's Hope Lost**

Ophelia awoke from her afternoon catnap to find that the sun had already set and Angela bustling about her tent, her new clothes (two simple woolen dresses, three tunics, a cloak and a pair of breeches provided for her by the Varden) and various earthenware potion bottles strewn all over the camp chairs and small wooden table that furnished the small canvas space.

"What are you doing?" Ophelia asked croakily as she sat up. Her eyes quickly scanned the tent for the pitcher of water Angela always kept filled. Making sure her charge stayed hydrated was just one more thing the witch devoted copious amounts of energy to, insisting that drinking plenty of water and maintaining a proper diet were included in the long list of things Ophelia was required to do in order to restore herself to her former health all the faster (that in addition to resting to the point of madness and downing every single putrid elixir Angela brewed for her).

Grabbing up a wooden cup filled with water, Angela hurried over to where Ophelia lay on her cot to prevent the girl from getting up and searching for it herself.

"Here, drink this," she said, pressing the cup into Ophelia's hand.

"_Slowly,_ or you will make yourself sick," the witch added as an afterthought, running a hand over her frizzy hair in a vain attempt to smooth it.

"You never answered my question," Ophelia observed from where she sat, her cat-like eyes following Angela around the room as she flitted to and fro like a humming bird, occasionally depositing the odd water skein or jar of salve into a pack sitting on the table. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Not I, _you_," Angela replied brusquely, barely looking up.

Ophelia's surprise at the witch's simple utterance was so great that she was barely able to stop herself from spitting out the rather large gulp of water she had just taken; she settled instead for choking on it so hard that she scared the wits out of Angela, who rushed over to rub her back rather vigorously.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Angela cried, torn between exasperation and worry. "What must I do to get you hardheaded young Riders to mind me when I tell you something?"

Ophelia shot a glare at the witch from underneath the long sheet of golden brown hair that slid forward over her hunched shoulders to cover her flushed face as she coughed.

"I am fine," she said as she gasped for breath, sounding as though someone had been trying to garrote her. "I thought I heard you say that I was _going_ somewhere?"

"You are," Angela sniffed, sounding as though she highly disapproved of the entire idea. "Queen Nasuada has ordered that you and Vanilor accompany Eragon and Saphira to the elfish capital of _Ellesmera_ in _Du_ _Weldenvarden_."

"Has she indeed," Ophelia muttered, her voice low, her face visibly hardening at the word 'ordered', though Angela, who had gone back to packing her patient's things, did not seem to notice.

_And if I refuse to go?_ the young maiden found herself wanting to demand, even if it was just to be contrary. Although it rankled to admit it, the Queen's _orders_ happened to coincide perfectly with Ophelia's own wishes (for what she was sure was the first and last time). While being taken to live amongst the elves may not be exactly what she wanted (she would much rather have her freedom), it was preferable to wasting away in this godforsaken desert, waiting for the day when the Varden would finally stop beating around the bush and make their demands for her aid. _I would not help them even if I could—which I cannot. I do not know the first thing about waging war and will not learn just to be at their beck and call._

Also, she confessed to some curiosity: Though she was elf kind, she had never set foot in _Ellesmera_ (or even met another elf, for that matter). She knew that whatever the city of the elves was like, it would most likely much more interesting than dry, hot, flat Surda, and she would be lying if she said she did not wonder—at least a little—that spending some time in the land of her ancestors might yield some answers to the questions that plagued her thoughts in the dead of night, when she was supposed to be sleeping. But no, that was the past, and the past was better off left dead and buried, where it belonged, where it could not cause anymore pain.

Shaking her head slightly to clear it of such heavy thoughts, Ophelia sprang from her cot and, despite Angela's protests, assisted the witch in packing the rest of the food and supplies she would need on the journey that lay ahead of her.

--------

Eragon had left a folded up piece of parchment pinned to the flap of Angela's tent which briefly explained the proposed journey to _Ellesmera_ and asked her to do what she could to ready Ophelia by dawn's first light the next morning. That was how he told her. It was a coward's way out and he knew it, but he just had not been able to help himself. Somehow the thought of facing either woman was enough to make him want to turn right around and flee for the hills. At least this way he would not have to listen to any more of Angela's rants and could perhaps save himself from incurring the wrath of Ophelia—at least for a short while longer. Besides, he reasoned to himself, Angela knew better than he what Ophelia would need in the way of supplies. While the maiden was now well enough to travel—so long as they took it relatively easy and did not attempt to break any records in reaching their destination—she was far from recovered. He knew that she was still taking various potions and usually kept her stab wounds bandaged to keep dirt out and prevent infection from setting in.

But if either woman thought anything of his faintheartedness, they (uncharacteristically) kept it to themselves. When he arrived at Angela's tent just before dawn, where Ophelia had spent her last night in the camp of the Varden, the young woman had been ready to go, dressed in a long, pale blue tunic and fawn-colored breaches. A heavy traveling cloak was thrown haphazardly over her bony shoulders and her long, golden brown hair fell in a long plait down to the small of her back. After saying a quick goodbye to Angela and scratching Solembum affectionately behind the ears (something he only allowed Ophelia to do), the young elf maiden hoisted her pack over her shoulder, ignoring Eragon's offer to carry it for her, and walked quickly from the tent, leaving Eragon with little choice but to follow behind her.

So that was how the two Riders came to be silently navigated their way through the seemingly endless rows of white canvas tents that now represented the temporary homes of the thousands of people who now found themselves refugees on the outskirts of civilization, deprived of their country and their future.

Despite the earliness of the hour, Ophelia could not help but notice that many people were up and about. Indeed, she and Eragon's progress through the camp was attracting quite a bit of attention from the dirty, slightly malnourished people of various ages milling about. As they neared the edge of camp, where Saphira and Vanilor had arranged to meet them just after sunrise, more and more people seemed to recognize her companion; indeed several were even calling out greetings and requests for them to partake in their morning meal, which Eragon speedily but politely declined. Others, however, turned their backs on them or muttered indistinctly to one another while exchanging dark looks as the two Riders passed by.

"You have a history with these people," Ophelia observed quietly, speaking for the first time since he had come for her at Angela's tent. "They are too familiar with you to be recent acquaintances."

"I grew up with them," Eragon said, his voice matching hers in softness. "They lived in the village where I was raised."

With a smile that was both bitter and wry, he continued on: "I am surprised they even recognize me anymore; I have changed so much since I last saw them all."

"How can it be that I have changed to a point where I am almost past the point of all recognition, but they have hardly changed at all?" he burst out suddenly after several moments of silence, though his question did not seem to be directed at anyone in particular.

The sadness and longing radiating off of him was almost palpable. Ophelia felt her stomach clench unexpectedly with an emotion she could not immediately identify. It took her a moment, but then she was able to place it: empathy. It was the first deep emotional connection he had felt with another human being in a very long time, and it was somehow much more terrifying than she would have hitherto thought.

Pausing, she placed a tentative hand on Eragon's arm, forcing him to stop walking and turn around to face her.

"Because you are not like them, Shade Slayer," she whispered softly, her voice almost inaudible, forcing him to lean in closer so he could hear her. Feeling his arm tense beneath her fingers at her words, she continued on quickly before he could interrupt her. "I honestly do not believe you ever were, even when you lived among them. You were never meant to follow the same path as the rest. You are different. But that does not mean you will not miss the way things once were."

Eragon's face softened as he let her words wash over him. Smiling at her, he placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm and said, "Please, call me Eragon."

His large hand almost completely covered her own much smaller one, and the warm, tan, slightly callused skin of Eragon's fingers and palm were in sharp contrast to the pale, cold flesh of Ophelia's slender hand. She was taken aback by the sudden sensation she felt, like her stomach had dropped down to her feet, sending a rather unpleasant jolt through her entire body. She felt her face heat up inexplicably, and she quickly yanked her hand out from underneath Eragon's and pressed it against her burning forhead.

"Are you all right?" Eragon demanded, obviously concerned, stepping closer and reaching out to brush her arm with his fingers.

Ophelia, shrinking away from his touch, nodded her head a little too quickly, refusing to meet his eye all the while. She wished, and not for the first time, that her dear, beloved Sophia was there to help her make sense of what was going on—inside of her and out.

"Well, we should probably get moving before Saphira and Vanilor decide to go hunting and leave us behind," Eragon said, trying to keep his manner light despite his inner confusion. He could not, for the life of him, figure out the enigma that was Ophelia: One moment she was offering him words of comfort and solace and the next she was acting as though he were a complete stranger. It was beginning to drive him absolutely mad.

Nodding once more, she attempted to continue walking in the direction they had been going, but found her way blocked by a tall blonde man who, by the looks of him, had seen better days. His hair was messy and in bad need of trimming, his face was covered with grime and several days' worth of stubble and the mud brown eyes just visible below his shaggy fringe were bloodshot and surrounded by impressively large dark circles. Because she and Eragon stood up wind of him, Ophelia could even detect the faint stench of stale drink radiating off of the man. His jaw was set stiffly, and while he seemed to be trying to affect an air of overall easiness, his body remained tense.

Acting as though Ophelia were no more visible than the air around them, the man addressed himself directly to Eragon.

"I need to speak with you, cousin," he said, his tone one of forced calm.

Ophelia looked between the two men, her interest piqued. While the other man addressed Eragon as 'cousin', she could hardly believe it possible that the two men were in any way related; they hardly looked anything alike. Indeed, the man standing opposite her lacked any of the grace of person or ease of movement that had such a marked presence in the man beside her. She could hardly keep her feelings of great disdain toward the unkempt man from showing on her remarkably feline face.

Noticing that Eragon seemed to be choosing his words carefully, Ophelia felt a sudden sense of foreboding as she came to the sudden realization that the ensuing conversation would be a far cry from a pleasant exchange between relatives.

Finally Eragon, in a voice of forced lightness, replied, "Unfortunately you have caught me at a bad time, Roran."

"Why?" the man named Roran demanded sharply, his bloodshot eyes narrowing immediately. "Where are you going?"

"I….I am afraid I must to leave for a time. Lady Nasuada has given Saphira and I orders to take Ophelia _svit-kona_ and her dragon to _Ellesmera_…."

"So—so you must take her to the elves? And then you are coming right back?" Roran asked an expression of mingled hope and confusion on his face.

"I am afraid it is not that simple," Eragon replied heavily, heaving what he felt must be his millionth sigh in the past few days. "The Varden has agreed it is too dangerous for either Ophelia or I to remain in Surda any longer. Not only are the two of us extremely vulnerable here, but our very presence puts the entire camp at risk of another attack by the Empire, which the Varden could not possibly survive in its current, much weakened, state. It is felt that in _Ellesmera_ we will be safer, at least for a time.

"I am so sorry Roran," Eragon said, and Ophelia could tell he truly meant it.

"You are sorry," Roran repeated slowly, his tone incredulous and his voice growing in volume with every word. "You're sorry?! For what?! Breaking your word to me, or leaving Katrina to die, cold and alone, in the Ra-Zac's lair?"

"Roran, Saphira and I have not broken our word; we _will_ help you rescue Katrina, but all in due time. The fact that the _Ra-Zac_ have done her no harm yet makes it very likely they have no intention of doing any."

"Oh, well that's a comfort," Roran spat lividly. "I am glad to know that it is not _likely_ that those—those _things_ that have my betrothed strung up in chains do not intend her any _serious_ harm!"

Eragon was at a loss for what else to say to his cousin. He knew it wasn't fair and he hated that he wasn't able to just drop everything to help Roran rescue Katrina. Ironically enough, being a Dragon Rider seemed to afford him even less freedom than he had had as a simple farm boy back in Carvahall. His life was now one seemingly endless string of obligations to others, all in the name of the greater good.

"I cannot believe this!" Roran went on, obviously having no intention of letting Eragon go without first voicing his anger and grief.

"First _she_ appears like a bat out of hell," the distraught man continued on, his tone disgusted, as he looked in Ophelia's direction for the first time since the exchange had begun, "and of course everything must be dropped for weeks on end so you can play nursemaid to some lizard tamer, and as soon as she is well you must run off with her to the elves, leaving those you promised to help forgotten behind you!"

"Now wait just a moment—" Eragon began, visibly bridling when Roran began to insult Ophelia. His cousin could heap as much blame as he wished upon himself, but Ophelia was another story. Her appearance was just another contributing factor in the litany of reasons that led to the decision that he had to leave the Burning Plains. And if the tensing of Ophelia's body next to his own was any indication, Roran would find out exactly why it was not a good idea to insult an easily incensed Dragon Rider if he did not interfere on his cousin's behalf.

"This is all your fault," Roran continued on, changing tack in an instant, all while not seeming to have heard his cousin at all. "You and that stupid blue dragon! You have no idea how much I wish you had never found that damn egg! If it weren't for you my father would still be alive and we all would back at Carvahall, where we belong!"

Some of the members of the crowd that had by now formed around them murmured their agreement with the words Eragon's cousin spoke. Ophelia instantly forgot her own anger towards Roran as she began to calculate the likelihood of them being able to extricate themselves from this situation without it becoming uglier that it already was. What she came up with was far from encouraging.

Eragon felt his face burn bright red as a fresh rush of guilt washed over him, followed swiftly by anger. Had he not already apologized to his cousin for the mess that he had left in his wake following his flight from Carvahall with Brom? Was he not already sick with guilt over Uncle Garrow's death? Did not the faces of the loved ones he had lost already haunt his nightmares?

Struggling to control his temper, Eragon said through clenched teeth, "I have already apologized for any pain or suffering I may have caused—I assure you it was entirely inadvertent. As for my reasons for taking the course of action that I did, I have already explained them to you in full and feel no reason to repeat myself. Now this conversation is over, so if you will excuse us—"

Taking Ophelia by the upper arm (though this time with a much gentler grip), Eragon attempted to steer her around Roran, keeping her as far away from their assailant as possible, but he blocked them once again.

"Do not be a fool Roran," Eragon snapped sharply, his patience obviously at an end.

"But it becomes him so well," Ophelia hissed in reply to Eragon's warning, pulling her arm from his grasp and moving away from him until she was standing directly in front of his cousin. Her bizarre blue cat eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Roran; her pale pink lips twisted into a contemptuous smile.

Roran, whose face had turned beet red at the elf maiden's comment, was robbed of the chance to reply by the sudden parting of the crowd that had gathered to reveal Saphira and Ophelia's large, rather frightening silver streaked dragon.

_What is going on here?_ Saphira demanded suspiciously as she and Vanilor took in the scene before them.

_Nothing,_ Eragon said, his answer coming a little too quickly for comfort.

_Yeah right,_ the sapphire dragon retorted waspishly, visibly displeased at being lied to by her Rider._ I should have known that you would not be able to get Ophelia through the camp with out some sort of scene ensuing._

_We got a little sidetracked, is all,_ Eragon replied defensively, stung by Saphira's words. _We were just leaving._

_Well then let's get a move on,_ she snapped sourly, turning around and stalking back in the direction from which she came. _I would like to get out of here some time before the _end_ of time._

His face darkening with suppressed anger, frustration and hurt, Eragon took Ophelia by the elbow once more and moved silently past Roran, who looked as though he desperately wished to stop them but dared not—though perhaps his courage would not have failed him had Vanilor not been glaring at him malevolently with his unsettling black eyes for the past several moments.

With a final parting snort, the taciturn black dragon swung around and lumbered away, bringing up the rear of the tiny procession of dragons and Riders as they left the camp of the Varden for the mysterious forset of _Du Weldenvarden_.


	9. Revelations

One night but a day or two into their journey the small traveling party made camp in a small clearing in the middle of a thick forest of pine trees in the foothills of a small range of mountains. Already they had fallen into a silent mode of operation: Ophelia would make camp, laying out the sleeping pallets and see to their dinner, while he went off in search of wood for a fire.

When he returned on that particular night, he unceremoniously dumped the firewood he had found within the circle of rocks Ophelia had set up as a pit and with a whispered _brisngr,_ a warm, blue-flamed fire roared to life.

Standing up as he turned to face Ophelia, who had been watching his every move since he had come back to camp, Eragon was surprised when she twisted her hand in the elfish greeting and murmured in her soft, melodic voice, _"Atra esterni ono thelduin."_ (May good fortune rule over you.)

Eragon's training in etiquette eventually overcame his surprise, forcing him to automatically return the gesture and voice the second part of the ritual of etiquette, _"Mor'ranr lifa unin hiarta onr."_ (Peace live in your heart.)

"_Un du evarinya ono varda,"_ Ophelia replied, a small smile creeping across her full, pink lips at Eragon's much taken aback reaction to her display. (And the stars watch over you.)

He could do nothing but gape at her as she sat down before the fire and began to silently pick at the meal of bread, cheese, and fruit spread before her. Eragon wordlessly shook his head. This girl was really just one surprise after another. One day she was engaged in a screaming match with him down on the rocks by the sea, carrying on like she would rather hurl herself off of a cliff and into the briny salt water rather than be forced to live with him or the Varden, the next she was trying to ease the pain of the loss of his childhood as though they had never fought in the first place. Then, no more than five minutes later, she was insulting his grief stricken cousin in front half the displaced villagers of Carvahall, though, to be fair, Roran had rather deserved it.

He had never in his life met a more contradictory person than Ophelia, or at least he had never met someone who could go from warm to cold like her in no time at all. He much preferred dealing with her antipathetic dragon—at least there he knew where he stood. Vanilor seemed to indiscriminately hate every living being he came across with the exception of Ophelia, Angela, Solembum, and Saphira, to whom he was beginning to show a rather guarded affection. As a matter of fact, Eragon did not believe he had ever seen Vanilor interact with anyone aside from the aforementioned and himself, excluding the shooting glares he gave to those who were foolish enough not to scramble out of his way the moment they saw him coming.

After he had sufficiently recovered from his initial shock, he said, by way of starting up a conversation, "I was not aware you spoke the Ancient language, or that you knew of the elvish ways of etiquette."

Ophelia's unsettling cat eyes regarded him from beneath her thick, dark eyelashes before she replied, not a little ironically, "You never asked."

Eragon considered her words before he sat down next to her and began to eat his food as well.

"Would you have told me even if I did?" he finally said, turning so his body partially faced hers.

Her blue eyes danced with mirth as she smiled at him yet again. "Well, I suppose now we shall never know."

Eragon let out a snort of exasperation before allowing himself to laugh.

"You are a most trying companion, do you know that?" he demanded as he snatched a piece of dried apple from the cloth laid before her and popped it in his mouth

"And why ever would you think that?" she returned innocently as she gracefully swiped some dried orange off the cloth in front of him.

"Perhaps it is because you take a strange delight in shocking me. Or it could be that you seem to have a witty response reserved for every question I ask."

"I am not all that bad, I am sure."

"Yes, well, I daresay you are preferable to Solembum. I am rather surprised that the insufferable creature did not decide to tag along on our journey. He likes you, you know—at least, as much as he is capable of liking anyone."

"He seriously considered it for a moment, I believe, but when he realized we would be traveling by dragon back, he decided he much preferred the Burning Plains. It's the landings he dislikes—I have the scratches on my arms to prove it!"

"And," she added as an afterthought, laughing a little as she said it, "He dislikes the company of elves. He does not like to live among them if he can help it."

"He said that to you?" Eragon exclaimed incredulously, shocked at the nerve possessed by that bushy excuse for a cat.

"Aye, he did," Ophelia replied, smiling.

"But you are an elf!"

"Yes, I suppose I am."

Eragon mad a face at her. He was quickly becoming annoyed with Ophelia's cryptic half-answers that never seemed to fully explain what it was she was saying—she may never have lived amongst her kinsmen, but his dealings with her proved she had inherited the Fair race's infuriating penchant for playing word games with every outsider they came across.

"And what," he demanded, "is that supposed mean?"

She looked at him, confusion and mild surprise darting in quick succession across her beautiful face. "Surely you must know. Saphira knew the moment she saw me, as did Solembum; all magical creatures do."

"What do Solembum and Saphira know?" he persisted.

"That I am but half elfin," she replied.

"But why would Saphira keep that from me?" Eragon murmured aloud as he sat back wonderingly.

_Because it is not my place to reveal the secrets of others,_ Saphira said, apparently still listening to their conversation through Eragon even though she was off hunting with Vanilor.

_Yet you apparently have no qualms about eavesdropping on their conversations,_ he shot back. _Don't you find that a bit hypocritical, especially when you consider that you are the one who despises it when I withhold things from you?_

Saphira harrumphed indignantly, and Eragon felt her break off their mental link as she spotted a particularly enticing stag in the woods below. Turning his attention back to Ophelia, Eragon repeated in a contemplative voice, "Only half elfin?"

She nodded and hesitated before speaking once more. "My mother…she was an elf. Her name was Evaria. My knowledge of the Ancient Language—which is rudimentary at best—tells me it means 'created of the stars'." She paused for rather lengthy period of time, as though deliberating whether or not she should say any more.

"What happened to her?" Eragon asked softly, unable to stop himself. "To your mother, I mean?"

She gave him the same look she had on the rocks the day they had argued, the look that was somewhere between a bitter smile and a painful grimace, before answering softly, sadly, "She died."

"But she was an elf!" Eragon exclaimed before he could check himself. "How could she die?"

"You must understand: I know very little about my mother and all the knowledge I do possess is secondhand, told to me by the couple who raised me from infancy," Ophelia began slowly. "My foster father, Gareth, who throughout his youth and middle age was a relatively well-known soldier who had risen through the ranks of the army of the Empire before he retired to a secluded home in the country, was out hunting one day many years ago when he came across a young elf maiden, badly wounded and heavy with child. He brought her home to the cottage he shared with his wife, Sophia, where Evaria labored hard for several days, slipping in and out of consciousness. When awake she would hallucinate. She said enough for the couple who took her in to gather the little information from her that I have relayed to you; essentially her name, that she came from the far-off elfin city of _Ellesmera,_ and that she had fled from her homeland to be with her husband, who was not of elf kind. Before she died, she gave birth, to a baby girl."

"You?" Eragon asked softly, even though he already knew the answer.

Ophelia nodded.

"What happened then?" Eragon questioned without thinking, the curiosity of his youth rearing its bothersome head to ask questions that often vexed the person they were directed at.

"The couple who took in my mother decided to do the same for her orphaned child. They had no children of their own, but had always desired a daughter, and thinking it wrong to shun the disguised gift the Gods had sent them, they took it upon themselves to raise her as though she were one of their own, despite the fact the child was of another race and they would have to conceal her true identity from all but themselves."

After saying this, Ophelia gave him another one of her small smiles, the kind that clearly said she had already told him more than she had wanted and had no intention of revealing any more, at least not at present.

Before Eragon could protest, however, she quickly darted past him and pulled the sword he had chosen for himself from the Varden's armory from its sheath. While it was better made than any of the others he had looked over, it was certainly not _Zar'roc._ Inspecting the weapon, Ophelia remarked, "It is quite a heavy weapon. I suppose that is why I never acquired one. That and I would not have the faintest idea how to use it."

"What do you use to defend yourself, then?" Eragon demanded having been successfully diverted from the subject of Ophelia's past.

"Just this," Ophelia said, pulling a long, sharp silver dagger that hung from the leather belt knotted about her small waist, and handing it to him hilt first. "It was my mother's."

He took the proffered weapon and examined it closely. It was finely crafted, most likely of elfish make, but still….

"This will not do," he said, shaking his head. "You cannot defend yourself from dragon back with only a dagger! You must learn the ways of the sword."

"I have never entered into battle with Vanilor, Eragon," Ophelia pointed out as she settled down next to him once again, "so I never had a need to learn. Besides, a young woman traveling around with a sword is highly suspicious, considering human females are not often swordsmen and most of the time that was what I was trying to pass myself off as—a common young woman. Daggers and knives suited my purposes much better than anything else ever could."

_You could hardly pass for a common anything,_ Eragon thought silently to himself as his eyes lingered over her mouth for a moment as she slowly chewed a piece of hard bread.

Shaking his head and clearing his throat, he said, "When we arrive at _Ellesmera_, and after you have fully recovered from your—_ordeal_—we shall see about finding you a suitable sword so we may begin your training."

Ophelia found herself wanting to protest, wanting to insist that she had no desire to learn the use of a sword because she had no intention of joining him in his war, cart her around the continent though he may, but Vanilor and Saphira's arrival back at their small camp silenced her. She was suddenly so overcome by feelings of extreme exhaustion that the very idea of expressing her thoughts to Eragon, which would inevitably lead to another argument, left her with the urge to crawl in a hole and hide. So she did the next best thing: Murmuring a quiet 'good night' to Eragon, she went and took up her place under Vanilor's velvety black wing, falling asleep within moments, only to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again.

**A/N: I apologize for the length of time it took for me to get this chapter written and up. I ran into some plot problems as far as Ophelia's heritage and background are concerned, and I sort of shelved this story for a spell to focus on schoolwork and various other writing projects. But I think (hope!) that I have worked the above-mentioned problems out and sincerely hope that you enjoy this chapter. I cannot promise there will be updates more frequent than a month or two apart, but the approach of summer and the end of classes may allow me to update more often. Again enjoy! **

**(Also, I just wanted to let you know that as she is only half-elfin, Ophelia ages normally until she reaches her late teens, where the aging process will begin to slow down in earnest; and as her mother was immortal, so she passed this on to her daughter, or at least this is premise I am operating on. For those interested, the character of Ophelia is still a teenager, about fourteen or fifteen or so. Again, as she is an elf, she is extremely mature and introspective and philosophical for her young age.)**


	10. Fight & Flight

_Did you have a good hunt?_ Ophelia asked with a bright smile as she turned away from Eragon, shifting her attention to the two dragons that had just landed in the little camp they had made for the night.

The small party had been traveling for a little over a week now, and Saphira and Vanilor had not gone hunting since the evening Ophelia had told Eragon about her unusual heritage. The winged pair had become increasingly more uneasy as the days had worn on, but they refused to tell their Riders what was causing their agitation. Despite this, Ophelia had insisted they go hunting tonight on the sensible grounds that there was no way they could maintain their pace if they did not hunt more often, as their days spent flying were invariably long and their nights incredibly short. She had all but banished them from the camp, insisting she and Eragon could take care of themselves for an hour two.

But when she saw the looks of concern on the dragons' faces, however, she abandoned her first question in favor of a hurried, _Whatever is the matter?_

_Something is amiss,_ Vanilor said, his deep voice taking on the harsh edge that worry always gave it.

_We could not see nor hear another living creature in this forest for miles around,_ Saphira said in explanation. _I can feel the terror radiating from the trees, and it has not been caused by us. There is a stench of putrid evil in the air._

Ophelia felt the small hairs on the back of her neck stand up at Saphira's words. Turning to Eragon she said, "We must leave this place immediately. It is not safe to remain."

He nodded his agreement, and they began to hastily break camp, packing up what little they had and tying Saphira and Vanilor's saddles to their backs. The evil in the forest, however, seemed to sense that its quarry was fleeing and in the distance there could be heard the sound of something heavy crashing through the trees. Whatever it was that was coming, it would be here in only a scarce few moments. Eragon's jaw took on a hard set. He knew what he had to do. Rushing over to where Ophelia stood next to Saphira, he boosted the thin girl easily onto the sapphire dragon's back.

_Saphira,_ he said gravely, hoping his dragon could sense the seriousness of the situation well enough to see the sense in what he was about to tell her to do, regardless of whether or not she liked it. _Take Ophelia and get as far away from this place as quickly as you can. Vanilor and I will follow as soon as we are able. _

Ophelia, who, from both the determined expression on Eragon's face and his having haphazardly tossed her onto the back of a dragon that was not her own, seemed to have caught on that he was sending her away and immediately began to protest.

"Wait!" she cried, tearing down the heavy wool traveling hood that masked her face so she could look at him properly.

"Please," he said, with audible earnestness, cutting her off before she had a chance to speak again, though as the words left his mouth, the look on Ophelia's face gave him great pause. It suddenly struck him, right at that moment, that not only was she worried for Vanilor, but she was afraid for him as well, and despite the gravity of the situation, he felt the inexplicable soaring of his heart. Capturing her pale hand in his, he squeezed it in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture until Saphira's take-off forced him to jump back and let go.

"_Atra du evarinya ono varda,"_ he called after them softly, the look in Ophelia's eyes burned into his memory, the tingle of her touch where he had held her hand in his still present even though she was gone.

After a long moment, he sprang into action, snatching up his sword from where he had dropped it on the ground in his hurry to send Ophelia and Saphira off and swung himself unto Vanilor's saddle with relative ease, despite being unused to mounting a dragon so tall.

_You did the right thing, Rider,_ the great creature said to Eragon with his usual quiet gravity as he settled himself into the unfamiliar saddle. He would have wondered at such an obvious declaration of praise coming from the austere creature, but he had not the time, for the moment after Vanilor said it, they were beset upon by what stalked them.

Two beasts the likes of which Eragon had never seen before smashed through the underbrush and into the clearing. In appearance they resembled what could only be described as some sort of distant ancestor of the bull, though they were easily half the size of Vanilor, who was about as small as a dairy barn. Their hides were nearly as black as dragon's as well, but whereas the Vanilor's was a handsome, glossy sable, theirs was a color reminiscent of death and darkness, and their entire bodies were covered in hair heavily matted with dried blood. The putrid odor of rotting flesh seemed to intrinsically emanate from the horrid beasts, making Eragon's stomach churn, and he felt himself having to fight to keep from becoming sick. Despite all of this, the feature that commanded Eragon's attention the most was the extremely long, sharp scimitar-like tusks that protruded from the animal's large, blocky heads, one just above each brow.

Both creatures lifted their noses into the air as though trying to catch the scent of their prey; it took Eragon a minute to realize they were blind and were thus forced to rely entirely on what was surely their acute sense of smell in place of sight to find things. Seeming to have located their quarry, the twin creatures turned their sightless heads toward where Vanilor stood with Eragon on his back. Pawing the earth with their sharp hooves, one of the beasts let out a terrible bellow before they simultaneously rushed dragon and Rider.

Vanilor responded by raising his black head into the air and letting out a feral roar, a sound that would have curdled the blood of mortal man or beast, before bounding forward to gamely meet their attackers.

With a strength and ferocity Eragon would formerly have thought impossible, even for a dragon Vanilor's size, the black dragon snatched one of the mutant bulls up by the neck in his great jaws and tossed it into its fellow, managing to knock the other bull off course. Eragon, seeing his chance as the other beast ran harmlessly along side Vanilor, sprang from the dragon's back onto that of the bull, and raising his sword into the air, thrust his broad weapon vertically downward into the creature's neck, delivering a fatal blow. Time seemed to slow to a glacial pace as the cumbersome creature continued to lumber forward for several paces before collapsing with a crash to the ground. Throwing himself from the thing's back, Eragon rolled several feet off to the left in an attempt to avoid accidentally impaling himself on one of its pointed tusks.

Landing rather hard on his back with force enough to knock the air clean from his lungs, Eragon lay on the ground for several moments, gasping for breath like a fish out of water. A roar of pain brought the life element rushing painfully back into his lungs as he remembered that Vanilor was still battling a killer bull of his own.

Springing to his feet and wrenching his sword out of his dead adversary's body, he spun around until he saw Vanilor where he was fiercely fighting, wincing at the blood that poured forth from a wound on the dragon's left foreleg, begotten by a slash of one of those razor sharp tusks. Another roar of rage rumbled from Vanilor's deep chest before he snatched the creature in his mouth once more and tore at it with his deadly silver claws, dark blood flying everywhere. The animal struggled for a few moments before going limp, and with a flick of his long neck, Vanilor tossed its mangled body into the center of the clearing.

Without thinking, Eragon rushed over to the black dragon and placed a hand on his heaving side.

_I am all right,_ Vanilor told him, though he made no attempt to shake Eragon off, something that would have surprised the Rider greatly had the situation been any different. _What in hellfire was that?_

_I cannot say,_ Eragon admitted. _But whatever they are, they are not from here._

_They were sent,_ Vanilor remarked, catching effortlessly on to Eragon's meaning.

Eragon carefully regarded the dragon out of the corner of his eye. In truth, of all the few dragon's he had ever come across, he had never met one quite like this one. While obviously not as experienced as Saphira when it came to combat, Vanilor displayed a savage tendency he had never seen to such a degree in his own dragon. No, this strange black dragon was ruthless, a seemingly merciless killer who easily could and most likely would destroy anything and everything in his path if the fancy struck him. Eragon was glad he fought alongside Vanilor rather than against him.

_At least for now,_ he thought wryly to himself.

_Let us leave this place,_ Vanilor said, distaste apparent in his tone as he surveyed the destruction he had wrought. _I cannot bear the stench._

_But your wounds healing— _Eragon begain in protest, but Vanilor cut him off.

_Later_.

Barely waiting for Eragon to tie himself to the saddle, Vanilor unfurled his massive wings and launched himself into the air, forcing Eragon to grab on to one of his neck spikes to avoid falling off the dragon's back entirely.

They found Saphira and Ophelia quite a few miles off, having touched down at the edge of a fairly sizable freshwater lake, its dark, shining surface resembling rippling glass. Vanilor folded his wings and angled himself towards the ground, landing much more softly than Eragon would have thought him capable of for being so tired, several yards away from his Rider and Eragon's dragon.

Eragon slid out of the saddle and leaned heavily against Vanilor's side as a sudden wave of fatigue washed over him. The black dragon reached his head around to look at him, before nudging him in an almost affectionate manner. Eragon was surprised at such a display from the usually severe, reserved dragon and his surprise grew even greater when he allowed Eragon to rub his hand over the silver stripe that ran down his black reptilian face as he had seen Ophelia do on several occasions.

At the soft sound of Ophelia's light footfall approaching them, Vanilor snaked his head back around to face his Rider. He nuzzled her gently, lovingly, and she rested her soft cheek against his silver forehead, running her hand lightly up and down his scaly face.

They certainly were an odd sight to behold: a tall, slender, cat-like girl with the ears of an elf poking out from underneath her long, messy maple syrup hued hair, leaning against the silver face of a fearsome raven dragon splattered with the blood of a now dead mutant bull. But to him they—_she_—looked nothing short of perfect.

After watching them for several moments, he tore himself away from them, feeling like a voyeur, taking in a display of devotion that was not meant for his eyes or anyone else's. Sighing heavily, he walked over to where Saphira stood at the edge of the water, her broad back facing him. He came around to stand at her shoulder.

_Are you all right?_ She asked him quietly, oddly refusing to turn around to look at him.

He could only nod in response, feeling too tired to say anything.

_Good,_ she snapped, the sudden anger in her tone catching him by surprise. _Then I won't feel bad when I do this._

Before he could even react to her words she had knocked him flat on his back, her large sapphire face looming ominously above him.

_What on earth were you thinking,_ she demanded,_ sending me away like that?! You could have gotten yourself into serious trouble and I wouldn't have been there to help you! Are you out of your mind? What if you had been hurt? What if you had died? _

_Saphira…_ he began slowly as he ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, his tired brain seemingly unable to conjure up an explanation that would appease his dragon.

_I'm waiting,_ she interrupted, like a mother who was demanding to know the reason her errant child had come in after dark when he clearly knew he was supposed to be in before sunset.

He suddenly felt extremely annoyed. He was so sick of others second guessing his judgment in general, but somehow when Saphira did it hurt all the more.

_Saphira, you know that I was not trying to slight you by sending you away,_ he snapped angrily._ Ophelia is still weak even though she tries not to show it—you were there when Angela told me this before we left, and I did not want to risk a relapse in her health. I wished for you to take her away because I knew if anything happened to Vanilor or I, you would have been able to take her on to _Ellesmera_ and to safety, for you are the only one of our party aside from myself who knows the way. You are also the more experienced dragon and I trusted that you would know how to defend yourself and Ophelia in the event the two of you were attacked as well. _

He could feel her sheepishness float across their mental link when she realized the sense of his actions.

_My worry for you blinded my reason,_ she finally said. _I apologize for overreacting._

_It's okay, I'm used to it,_ he replied impishly, a tired grin spreading across his face.

_I resent that,_ Saphira said indignantly.

"You are hurt!" he heard Ophelia exclaim aloud from where she was standing with Vanilor.

Eragon mentally kicked himself for having forgotten about the dragon's injuries and hurried over to heal them, asking Saphira if she would lend him strength, for he had little of his own left.

When he had finished healing the gashes on the dragon's leg, Vanilor said he felt like a swim in the lake. Saphira eagerly agreed to go with him, while Eragon opted out, saying he was too tired. Ophelia decided to remain with him.

They sat down side by side on the bank of the lake, Ophelia casually skimming the bare toes of her right foot across the water as they watched their dragons dive into the cold water, disappearing under the surface just long enough to worry their Riders only to break through and soar back up into the air again. They seemed to be playing some sort of strange game of tag only they understood, and Eragon smiled at the sight of them. Even if he did not always get along with the dragon, he was glad that Saphira had found a friend in Vanilor. He knew that while she loved him dearly, she often missed the presence that only another dragon could provide for her.

Those thoughts suddenly brought to mind a conversation he had once had with Saphira. She had been incredibly sad at the time, despairing that she would have to live out her life alone, never to know the love of another of her kind. Did Saphira wish for Vanilor to be her mate? If she did, she had certainly done a good job of hiding her feelings for the other dragon from him, though Saphira could be very secretive when she wished it. He did not want for her to settle for Vanilor out of nothing more than the convenience of him being the only other suitable dragon around.

And what if Vanilor would not have Saphira? He thought of the barbaric display he had witnessed before, back at the clearing. Vanilor was a feral beast, to be sure, and he had hardly ever seen him display a soft sentiment towards another living thing aside from Ophelia. No, creatures such as Vanilor and Ophelia did not seem the most likely candidates to be touched by the tender hand of Love.

_Whoa,_ he mentally halted himself. How on earth had Ophelia's name just cropped up back there? As a Rider, to fall in love was certainly not expected of her, and from what he knew of her, it would seem that her personality railed against it as well. What did it matter if Ophelia never loved anyone other than Vanilor?

_It matters to _you the nagging voice of his subconscious pointed out slyly, only too happy to make itself heard.

Annoyed, Eragon told his subconscious to shut up and leave him alone.

"I beg your pardon?" Ophelia asked, looking at him, confusion apparent on her face. "I have not even said anything."

It took a moment for him to realize he had said the command he had given himself aloud, and Ophelia, as the only person around whom his words could be directed at, was obviously nonplussed by the order.

"Please excuse me," Eragon said, his cheeks burning red with embarrassment, his only consolation being that it was probably too dark for her to notice his scarlet face. "I was thinking to myself, I did not know I spoke aloud."

"Oh," was her only reply. No doubt she was trying to figure out with he had told himself to shut up, he thought. She must think him the greatest fool to ever live—not that that conclusion was too far from the truth.

Sighing, he climbed tiredly to his feet. "I think I am going to go to sleep."

"All right," she said, rising as well. Without saying anything else, she took his arm and draped it around her shoulders, encouraging him to lean his exhausted body against hers as they walked over to where she had set up their sleep rolls, and easing him down onto the ground before wrapping herself in her blankets and lying down next to him. She feel asleep rather quickly, but he found him staying up well into the night despite his weariness, watching the moonlight play across her beautiful as slept peacefully.

**A/N: Happy Chapter Ten, and a rather long chapter at that! I debated over cutting it somewhat in half and adding the shorter portion to the next chapter, but I finally decided against it. I rather like the way it turned out, and I really hadn't much to do on it, as the way it is here closely matches the portion from the original story that I took it from. That said, please enjoy, and if you like, review! I miss hearing from you guys! Also, I have been debating whether or not to up the rating a bit on this story in light of the events of this chapter. If you have any thoughts on this, pleas share!**


	11. Ellesmera

Eragon pulled distractedly at the neck of his dress tunic, the one he always wore to banquets and festivals while in _Ellesmera_. He was worried about Ophelia. He had not heard a word from her since she had been whisked away this afternoon by the guards at the gates to the city and no matter whom he asked or how many times he repeated his queries, he could not ascertain where the elves had taken her, much to his chagrin.

Eragon replayed the guards' reaction to her over and over in his mind: How they had shown her the deference due only to the highest ranking members of the royal family, how they had called her by her mother's name, _Evaria_, and the looks of shock and awe on their faces when she had told them with extreme bewilderment that they had mistaken her for someone else, that Evaria was her mother's name, not hers. That was when they had taken her and Vanilor away from him despite her protests and said that he could not follow, that he and Saphira must go to their tree home and prepare for a banquet the queen was holding that night in honor of their arrival.

_You know, you're going to ruin that shirt if you keep yanking on it like that…or choke yourself to death,_ Saphira observed from where she was curled up in her dragon bed as she watched him in all his agitated glory, pacing about the study like an idiot.

_I can't help it,_ _Saphira,_ he said, though he did release his now rumpled shirt.

_Great. Now it looks like I have slept in my clothing,_ he groused as he did his best to put his shirt to rights.

_Oh Eragon, relax._ Saphira said soothingly._ You need not worry about Vanilor and Ophelia. I am sure they will do just fine._

_I do not doubt them, I just wish I could be with her—I mean them._

_Uh-huh._

_She has never met another elf before in her life, Saphira, aside from Arya, and tonight she is to be presented to an entire banquet hall full of them, Queen Islanzadi and others of great importance among them! _

_She? It sounds to me like you are more worried for Ophelia than Vanilor._

Eragon felt his face burn scarlet with embarrassment when he realized he had let himself be found out. _Yes, well, Vanilor can—and will—behave however he wishes and no one will think twice about it because: one, he is the most revered of all magical creatures, a dragon; two, he's roughly the size of the Menoa tree; and three, he will rip anyone who dares to question his manners—or lack there of—into shreds with those silver knives he calls talons._

_That isn't true, and you know it._

_I'm sorry; you are right. The Menoa tree is not nearly as large as Vanilor._

_Shut up, you ninny; you are starting to sound like a mother hen,_ Saphira scolded.

_And I really wish you would not say such things of Vanilor,_ she continued on in a quieter voice. _He is not nearly so bad as you make him out to be, and if you allowed yourself the chance to get to know him you would see what he is truly like._

_Saphira, he hates me!_

_He does not _hate_ you, Eragon._

_Oh, so he only threatens the lives of those he _likes_? I suppose it is a miracle, then, that Ophelia has managed to survive this long!_

Saphira shook her head at him, but he could see in her eyes and feel through their link that the things he had said about Vanilor, even though he had said them in jest (at least partially, anyway), had hurt her feelings. He knew that she desperately wished for him to like Vanilor as she liked Ophelia, but while Ophelia had not exactly been easy to get to know as a result of her admittedly natural suspicions about him and her secretive ways, Vanilor was about as friendly as a bear that had not eaten in several days.

_I am sorry,_ he said, walking over to where she lay in the tear-drop shaped indention that served as her bed and placing a callused hand on her neck. _Truly I am. When I get this on edge, I tend to say things that are senseless. Please forgive me._

_There is nothing to forgive,_ she replied. Smiling, Eragon climbed onto the bed and curled up next to her.

_We have a little while before we are expected—how about we take a much needed nap?_

Saphira responded by sheltering him with the membrane of her velvety blue wing, her scaly body curling around his.

Eragon nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot while pretending to listen attentively to what an elfin lord of no menial rank had to say about the situation on the Burning Plains. The court had been assembled in the tree shaded banquet hall for almost half an hour and still the guests of honor, or at least the most interesting ones, had not yet appeared. He was so on edge that he was beginning to think of fantastically elaborate reasons for why Ophelia and Vanilor were conspicuously absent—that they had hatched a brilliant and foolproof escape plan the moment they were shown to their quarters and had managed to leave the elfin capital without anyone noticing, for example.

Yeah. Like that could ever happen.

So absorbed was Eragon in his own musings that he did not notice right away when the two he had been so anxiously awaiting had arrived. His head snapped around when everyone present fell completely and utterly silent. Looking quickly down the other end of the hall, he saw Vanilor and Ophelia slowly approaching where he stood with Queen Islanzadi and the many lords and ladies assembled behind her.

The sight of Ophelia made the breath die in his throat. He had never seen her look as she appeared this night. She resembled something out of the mystical fairy stories Brom told Eragon and the other village children of Carvahall in his youth.

She was clad in a flowing dress made of a whispery fabric, ebony in color, with intricate silver embroidery at the cuffs and hem. The neckline of the dress was several inches below her collarbone but not so low as to leave nothing to the imagination—if elves thought like that, which he was almost entirely certain they did not. The back of the dress, however, as Eragon saw once she had moved closer, dipped down to the small of her back, the raven colored fabric making a sharp contrast to the expanse of milky white skin that was revealed. The sleeves of the gown were fitted to the elbow, from which point they noticeably widened. The bodice of the dress clung to her slim torso, while the skirt was loose and the gossamer fine fabric floated down to the ground softly, ending in a train that was long but not obscenely so.

Her long, soft brown hair was pulled into some sort of elaborate knot at the back of her head except for a few shorter pieces left loose in the front to frame her angular face and a section of hair at the nape of her neck a few inches wide which had been left loose to tumble down the middle of her bare back, stopping only where her dress began again.

A sheer ebony veil with tiny star-bursts embroidered all over it in fine silver thread had been placed over her head, though through it Eragon could see that dark black kohl had been smudged around her eyes, increasing their resemblance to those of a cat, and her lips had been painted a pale beige color, giving her face a mono-chromatic look.

Eragon privately thought, much to his own confusion, that she looked lovely beyond all reason, and could barely take his eyes off her.

_Your jaw is scraping the ground,_ Saphira remarked with a low rumble of laughter, clearly amused. _You might want to pick it up before someone notices, or trips over it._

_She looks different, _Eragon returned defensively. _That is all._

She said nothing more, though he had a feeling Saphira would have continued to tease him had they been anywhere else. For once he found himself extremely glad to be surrounded by more elves than he could count.

When Ophelia and Vanilor had traversed the long hallway and were standing directly before the elfin court, Eragon was quite surprised when all present aside from Queen Islanzadi sank into deep bows. The surreal situation did not end there; indeed, the queen of the elves, the most stately and dignified creature Eragon had ever beheld, brushed aside Ophelia's attempt at the formal elfish greeting and, ignoring the elfish rules of etiquette, rushed forward and embraced the young maiden with feeling. Pulling back and raising the sheer veil that covered Ophelia's face as though to see her the better, the queen cried, "You are the image of your mother, Ophelia _Shur'tugal!"_

Recovering herself momentarily, the queen tore her eyes away from Ophelia long enough to address Vanilor.

"I have not forgotten you, mighty _skulblaka_. What is your name?"

_Vanilor,_ the black dragon said so all could hear, his powerful voice reverberating off the surrounding trees.

"You are a welcome guest in these troubled times, Vanilor," Islanzadi said. Vanilor merely inclined his handsome head in response, proving Eragon's earlier words to Saphira in their quarters (that Vanilor would treat this situation with the same stone-cold indifference as he did any other) entirely correct.

Completely perplexed and shocked into silence, Eragon could do nothing but watch dumbfounded as Queen Islanzadi, placing Ophelia's arm through the crook her own, led the young elfish maiden and her large dragon around, introducing them to elfin lords and ladies who seemed to consider Ophelia's attention the greatest of honors.

Eragon, tearing his eyes away from them, began looking round to the elf he had been speaking to before his traveling companion and friend, as he had come to think of her, had arrived.

"Ophelia _svit-kona's_ mother must have been a lady of some importance among the elves the garner her daughter such an esteemed welcome," Eragon observed, trying to affect an air of unconcern, knowing that the only way in which to get answers from an elf was to beat around the bush until you became mad with impatience.

The lord raised his thin, impeccably groomed blonde eyebrows in surprise at Eragon's remark. "Indeed. Her mother, Lady Evaria, was the beloved sister of the late king, whose people shared his great affection for her."

Eragon did not know why this answer, so free of the teasingly roundabout speech of the elves, surprised him, but it did. Arya, in typical elfish fashion, had led him to believe she did not know the identity of the newly found Dragon Rider. But if Ophelia truly were the image of her mother, as the queen had professed her to be, Arya must have known that Ophelia was not only a fellow elf, but her cousin, the daughter of her father's sister, as well! However, upon further reflection, his indignation dissipated—he could not exactly blame Arya for not wishing to disclose the fact that not only was Ophelia a Dragon Rider, but the lost daughter of an elfin princess, on the Burning Plains, where unwelcome ears were prone to listen in on private conversations.

After some time of standing deep in thought, the movement of the elves assembled around him toward the long banquet tables covered in every imaginable vegetarian dish, for the elves ate no meat, was enough to force Eragon to abandon his ruminations. He was seated across from Ophelia, each of them having been given places of honor on either side of the queen.

Before the feasting began he managed to catch Ophelia's eye and give her a reassuring smile, which, much to his surprise, she returned with a rather shy one of her own, making his stomach drop to the vicinity of his feet. The queen, however, obviously had no intention of allowing Eragon to monopolize the attention of her niece, for the moment they were all seated Islanzadí kept up a steady commentary about the other elves of bearing up at their end of the table for her niece's benefit.

Not feeling much like talking, Eragon occupied himself with his meal before looking down the table to where Vanilor stood with Saphira, the two of them sharing some sort of large vegetable pie. The elves seated around the two dragons looked upon them with reverence and awe, showering them with kind words and compliments. Saphira seemed to be having the time of her life, as she always did when in the company of the elves who worshipped her as though a goddess, but the look on Vanilor's reptilian face was nothing short of comical. Used to seeing most creatures in somewhat human form cowering in fear of his awesome stature, he seemed to view the elves' behavior towards himself and Saphira as excessively odd and was obviously at a loss to how he should respond. He finally settled for ignoring them entirely and tending only to his dinner, which the elves did not seem to mind at all. In fact, his taciturn nature, in addition to his commanding presence, seemed only to increase their admiration.

Eragon, for his part, was extremely relieved that the topic of conversation at dinner never strayed to truly dangerous territory, such as Ophelia's past and what had happened to her after her mother's death or how she had come across Vanilor's egg. At least the well-born and high-ranking among the elves, unlike their human counterparts in the Varden, seemed to value discretion as more than just a noun in the dictionary. And while he himself was rather impatient to know the answer to all of those questions (and so much more) concerning Ophelia, he also understood that a celebratory feast was not the place for such information to be requested or revealed.

_All will be revealed in the due course of time, I suppose,_ he said to himself, not particularly satisfied with even his own answer. He sighed inwardly.

When the feast was over and the earthenware plates and dishes had been cleared away, the soft and soothing music that had played all throughout dinner grew louder and changed into something more suitable for dancing, which is exactly what many of the elves began to do. Eragon, content to just watch, leaned back in his chair, though Queen Islanzadí seemed to have plans for him.

"There is no greater pleasure for one in my position than to watch my people enjoy themselves, especially in these troubled times. Come, Eragon," the queen said, addressing him, "do not sit there observing—there will be plenty of time for that when you are old and grey. Do not deprive me the pleasure of watching you—Ophelia may be your partner. If she is half as graceful as Evaria, she will be a magnificent sight to behold."

With that, the old queen placed Ophelia's thin, white hand in his own much larger one, leaving neither much choice but to oblige her wishes. Gently pulling Ophelia from her seat, Eragon led her to where the other young elves were dancing.

Seeming to recover from her shock, Ophelia said in a panicked whisper, "Eragon, I cannot do this! They seem to forget that I am not my mother—I will make a fool of myself trying to dance when I do not know how!"

"Shh, it will be all right, Ophelia," Eragon said in what he hoped was a soothing whisper, gently squeezing her hand reassuringly. Her grip tightened on his fingers, as though cutting off the circulation in his hand would save her from making a fool of herself in front of her kinsmen. Luckily the stars smiled down upon them, for at that moment the elves launched into a soft, almost sad melody on some sort of stringed instrument that closely resembled a violin in sound.

"Just follow my lead," he said quietly.

He pulled on her hand gently, bringing her around to face him, and moved one of his hands down to rest on her thin waist. He frowned when he felt the bone of her hip pressing firmly against his hand through the material of her dress; she needed to eat more. Her slight figure put the thinnest of the elfin ladies present to shame, which Eragon did not find a good thing at all. All thoughts of Ophelia's still slight figure, however, flew from Eragon's mind as they began to move in unison with the other pairs around them.

Despite Ophelia's obvious worry, it appeared as though Islanzadí had been quite correct when she guessed that Ophelia moved with remarkable grace even for one unacquainted with the movements of the dance. She kept her eyes locked on Eragon's the entire time, seeming to worry that if she were to break her gaze from his it would send her crashing to the ground.

To distract her from her nerves and himself from the odd feeling that being so near to her gave him, Eragon attempted to keep up a steady flow of conversation whilst they danced.

"You look stunning," he said without thinking and automatically wanted to kick himself. Out of all of the things he could have chosen to say, why on earth had that been it?

His annoyance quickly turned into confusion, however, when Ophelia's alabaster cheeks flushed pink and she quietly replied, "Thank you. You look very handsome as well."

_Handsome? _Eragon asked himself, feeling both pleased and uncertain. _She thinks I'm handsome?_

_Of course you are handsome,_ Saphira, who was never far from Eragon's thoughts, replied indignantly, as though shocked he had any doubts to the pleasantness of his own appearance. _Any woman who cannot see that is blind and stupid to boot._

_And I suppose you are not biased at all in my favor?_ he teasingly replied before tuning Saphira out and turning his attention back to his partner.

"Your dress is lovely," he forged on. "I suppose the elves gave it to you—I mean—I doubt you have been carrying evening ware fit to be worn at the elfin court around with you for the past few weeks."

Ophelia managed a small smile.

"No, I cured myself of the habit of carrying around luxurious evening gowns on my travels long ago," she responded teasingly.

"When they led you away, where did they take you? I was worried for you being in a strange place by yourself, and no one would tell me where you were and they refused to allow me to see you."

"Yes, when Vanilor and I were so unceremoniously taken from you before, they led him to a large chamber that had been prepared especially for him to rest in before dragging me off to my mother's old apartments, which have been left untouched since her disappearance. There I was divested of my traveling clothes, and while they were preparing me for the banquet, Queen Islanzadí came to see me, for as soon as the guards handed me over to the ladies in waiting, they ran immediately to the queen to tell her of the identity off the new Dragon Rider. She thought it would be best, however, if we were to pretend to meet for the first time in front of the other lords and nobles. As a matter of fact, it was she who insisted I wear this dress and veil tonight, as it was my mother's brother the king's favorite gown to see her in, much to the vexation of those who had to alter the dress a bit to fit me."

The moment she finished speaking, the song ended, robbing Eragon of a chance to respond and forcing him to release her. Placing her hand in the crook of his arm, he began to lead her back to where the queen sat when a large raven, as white as Vanilor was black, swooped down upon their heads, screeching a word in the ancient language Eragon had not remembered hearing before, though it certainly was not his usual cry of _wyrda,_ the word in the Ancient language that meant 'fate'. Eragon ducked his head, muttering a dwarfish curse as he pulled Ophelia against his chest to keep the silly bird from whacking her about the head with its snowy wings.

"Blagden!" the elf queen called out sharply, holding out her arm as a sign for the bird to stop harassing her guests and come to take his perch beside her.

"What on earth was that?" Ophelia demanded in a whisper as she stepped away from him.

Eragon looked around and noted with some embarrassment that every pair of eyes in the hall were now fixed on himself and Ophelia thanks to Blagden's attack. Deciding the best course of action would be to pretend like the incident had never occurred, Eragon took Ophelia's hand in his own and headed over to the queen once more, their assailant sitting on the monarch's right shoulder.

"Not 'what,' but 'who,'" Eragon remarked quietly, unable to keep his face from twisting into a wry expression. "That would be Blagden, the pet bird of the ruling family, having been so since he saved the life of your uncle many years ago. As a reward for his bravery, he was given the ability to speak and can predict the future as well. The magic is what turned his feathers white. It seems these days, though, his sole purpose in life is to make memorable scenes at banquets and speak in annoying riddles no living being can decipher."

Ophelia snorted with laughter at his last remark but was forced to immediately compose herself as they were back in hearing range of the queen. Eragon vaguely heard the monarch apologize for Blagden's rude behavior before commenting on how lovely Ophelia was and how well the two of them looked together. After continuing on in this manner for a while, Islanzadí suddenly exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and how exhausted they must be after their long journey. Eragon offered to escort Ophelia and Vanilor back to their quarters, which no one seemed to regard as amiss despite the fact that he did not know the way.

**A/N: Some what of a cliffhanger, I know, but this chapter was getting too long and I had to cut it half. Hopefully it will not take me long to post the next chapter. Until then, enjoy, and if you like, review! I value all feedback I am given!**


	12. The Tree Home

After they had left the banquet hall with their Saphira and Vanilor following closely behind them, and had walked along for several minutes in companionable silence, Eragon suddenly stopped and turned to look at Ophelia.

"Would you and Vanilor like to see where Saphira and I stay while in Ellesmera? It was once the home of Vrael, the lead dragon rider."

"You don't have to if you don't want," Eragon said immediately, speaking again before Ophelia even had a chance to reply, suddenly incredibly nervous. What if she thought him too forward? His invitation could be easily misconstrued as a come on, regardless of whether or not he meant for it to sound that way. "I mean, I will understand if you don't—we have journeyed far and were hardly given any time at all to rest—"

"Eragon." She said, quietly but firmly, effectively shutting his mouth in a way in which one of Brom's barked orders never could. "I would love to see your apartments. If they are anything like my mother's I am sure they are splendid."

She glanced quickly back at Vanilor to see if he approved of the idea, and when the black dragon dipped his head in assent, the four of them set off in the direction of Eragon and Saphira's tree home. Ophelia and Eragon ascended the steep stairs that wound their way up inside the trunk of the ancient tree, while Saphira and Vanilor soared up into the air, agreeing to meet them at the top.

Eragon briefly wondered how both dragons would possibly be able to fit inside his chambers before he remembered that, because the apartment had been built for Vrael and his dragon, who had been much older than Saphira and consequently nearly three times her size, both Saphira and Vanilor would probably be able to squeeze into either his bedchamber or study with relative ease, so long as they did not move around too much. When he and Ophelia had reached the top landing, doubled over and puffing for breath after having taken so many steps at a run, trying to see who could ascend the stairs the fastest (it was a tie), Eragon slid the door back and stood aside so she could enter first.

Ophelia's labored breath caught in her throat when she saw how magnificently the ancient, living tree had been manipulated with the elves' magic to create a mid-air dwelling for the leader of the Riders and his dragon. She stepped into a small room with intricate designs coaxed from the walls of paneled tree branches, walls broken only by the placement of three more sliding doors, each leading respectively to a small dining room, a little wash room, and a relatively large bedchamber, out of which Saphira poked her shining blue head.

When Eragon and Ophelia crossed the threshold into the room, they could not help but laugh at the sight that met them: Saphira and Vanilor lay curled up next to one another on a cushioned depression in the floor, quite obviously made for a dragon much bigger than the two of them combined, looking more like overgrown kittens than dragons.

"It is a miracle that you have not stabbed one another with your spikes, lying like that," Ophelia said, laughing as she leaned against the mantle piece of the dense wooden fireplace to look at them. "You look more like pointy cats than fearsome dragons!"

_Harrumph, _grunted Vanilor, and before Ophelia could stop him, he had snaked his dished head forward and, taking her dress carefully between his lips so as not to ruin it, pulled her off her feet before dropping her in a heap onto the dragon bed with them.

_You're in a good mood tonight,_ she remarked to him with a smile as she hoisted herself out of the depression and sat on the edge, rubbing Saphira's scaly sapphire nose with the palm of her hand.

_Yes, well, never before have I been able to eat such a hearty meal and enjoy the company of such—er—interesting companions,_ he replied.

Ophelia just smiled at him at him, her powder blue eyes tinkling in the moonlight.

Eragon stood back, watching them. He had never seen Ophelia as unguarded as she did at that moment, and he quite reveled in the sight. He privately thought the man who could wake up every day to see Ophelia smiling at him in such a way could never want for anything else.

After a few moments, he cleared his throat before taking her hand in his own, a very recent habit that had become all but irresistible to him, saying, "Come, I shall show you my study; the view of the city pales from this room pales in comparison with that from the study."

He led her to the hidden opening along one of the walls that led up a narrow flight of stairs to the room which housed a desk, liberally strewn with half empty bottles of ink, tightly wound up rolls of blank parchment, and several immaculate reading scrolls that had managed to find their way off from where they had been haphazardly on the desk and unto the floor; on the far wall there was another tear drop shaped hole in the wall big enough for a dragon to fit through as well as a second cushioned depression in the floor for a dragon to sleep in whilst his Rider read or wrote.

On the way up, Ophelia paused when she noticed that there was something wrong with the walls that enclosed the narrow staircase; indeed, it looked as though someone had taken a knife to the walls of the narrow passageway and scraped away the decorations the elves had so painstakingly created.

"Whatever happened here?" she asked quietly as she ran her pale hand lightly over the ruined patterns, tracing the scrapes in the wall with her narrow fingers.

Turning to see what it was she spoke of Eragon could not help but chuckle and soon sank down onto one of the stairs, his laughter having robbed him of the ability to breathe, much less stand upright.

"What?" Ophelia demanded her interest piqued at what memory could possibly cause such a reaction in its possessor. "Tell me!"

Saphira and Vanilor, having heard the commotion coming from the staircase, stretched their heads closer to see what was going on. Vanilor merely looked confused while Saphira, when she realized what it was that had caused Eragon to erupt into a fit of childish giggles, seemed to grow embarrassed and almost panicked.

_It is nothing,_ Saphira said quickly, shooting Eragon a glance that clearly warned him to hold his peace or suffer the consequences.

"Oh, Saphira," Eragon said, trying to regain control of himself. "Don't look at me like that; it is hardly anything to be embarrassed about!"

"You see," he began, turning to his rapt audience, "the last time Saphira and I were in Ellesmera, I was having some, er, _medical problems_, and one particular night, when I was up late reading in my study and Saphira was asleep in the bedchamber, I became…ill. The night was too windy for her to fly up to the study to get to me so she attempted to climb up through the staircase. She did pretty well, too; she got her head, neck and almost her shoulders through before she was stuck fast in place!"

At this Eragon was overcome with the giggles once more and could not go on. Ophelia, try though she may, could not get the image of majestic, poised Saphira stuck in a stairway out of her mind and collapsed in a heap against Eragon who wrapped his arms around her to keep her from sliding down the stairs, laughing as well.

Even Vanilor, the most composed out of the four, could not stop a deep, rumbling chuckle from escaping his throat. Saphira, however, found nothing about being humiliated in front of another dragon and his Rider funny, and turning away she jumped out through the tear drop shaped opening in the far wall and flew off into the night.

_Saphira_, Eragon called after her, feeling instantly awful at having embarrassed her before their friends, hurting her feelings in the process.

_Just leave me alone!_ Her angry voice echoed loudly through his mind.

_I will go after her, Rider,_ Vanilor said, touching Eragon on the shoulder with his nose in a gesture that was probably something akin to reassurance or comfort. _I have a feeling she would not have taken it quite so hard had I not laughed as well._

As Vanilor left the tree home to find Saphira, Eragon could not help but agree with the truth of his words. Saphira would have been indignant no matter whom he had told that particular anecdote to, but she probably not have flown away in an embarrassed huff had Vanilor not been among his audience. It was one thing to be laughed at by everybody else; it was quite another to be laughed at by one you loved unrequitedly.

Ophelia's placing her thin hand on his shoulder in a mimic of Vanilor's gesture of comfort brought him back to reality.

"It will be all right," she assured him. "Vanilor will find her and apologize and she will forget the whole thing ever happened. Now come, show me this study. I have quite an urge to see it."

-------

Vanilor landed quietly on the edge of a large thicket of trees a few miles outside of _Ellesmera_.

_Saphira,_ he called gently. _Saphira, I know you are in there._

When he received no answer, he heaved a large sigh, making as if to move. _If you do not come out, Saphira, I will just have to come in._

_There isn't enough room! _she protested, answering almost in spite of herself.

_Than you had better come out then, hadn't you?_ he replied as though the solution were obvious.

Saphira huffed indignantly as she shuffled slowly out of her thicket, the little place she always went to when she needed—or wanted—to be alone, averting her gem-like blue eyes so she would not be forced to meet his steady black gaze. Vanilor reached over and nuzzled Saphira's forehead gently with his nose, her surprise at this small action of affection robbing her somewhat begrudgingly of her anger.

_I owe you an apology, Saphira Bright Scales,_ he said quietly when he pulled his head away. This time she allowed him to catch her gaze. _I should not have made light of your ordeal. You were only trying to help your rider in his time of need. I of all others should have understood your desperation and stopped myself from laughing at the predicament such feeling left you in. _

_I overreacted, _Saphira said, sounding as though the memory of her conduct embarrassed her more than Eragon's story had. She cast a furtive glance in his direction before continuing. _The others I suppose I could have dealt with, but you…well I was afraid you would think me silly or not right in the head._

_Saphira, I have never met another dragon in my life, but even still I know that there is none who outshines you, in either beauty or abilities. You are truly exquisite. _

Saphira had to fight the urge to preen like a proud swan at his tender words. They were the greatest of compliments coming from the taciturn but deeply discerning dragon who had bestowed them upon her.

_Do you think we should head back?_ Saphira asked as she looked up at the sky in order that she might calculate the time. _It is getting late and they have a tendency to go at one another's throats when left alone for any lengthy period of time._

_Hmm,_ Vanilor grunted softly before Cheshire Cat-like grin spread across his black and silver. _You know what? I say we should give our Riders some alone time together. Something tells me they would like that a great deal._

-------

Eragon had never before realized exactly how easy Ophelia was to talk to, though he did grudgingly admit that this was most likely due in part to the fact that he had never really given her much of a chance, at least not in the beginning.

Despite their harrowing journey, despite their exhaustion upon their arrival at _Ellesmera_ and despite their having been forced to sit through an entire feast at which the entire elfin court was in attendance, their weariness was all but forgotten once they had ascended the long, winding staircase up to his tree home.

After Eragon had reiterated for all present to see that whenever he opened his mouth, he always seemed to land himself in some kind of trouble, this time resulting Saphira flying off in a huff followed closely by Vanilor, he and Ophelia had taken the time to explore his study together, looking through the old piles mislaid scrolls and discussing various members of the elfin court that had struck them as funny or interesting.

They eventually wound up in his bedchamber once more, Eragon lying on his back with his hands behind his head in the Saphira's dragon bed as he watched Ophelia putter about the room, tinkling with forgotten knickknacks and odd trinkets he had picked up his travels which had been placed on every flat surface in the room.

An offhanded question on her part about a tiny little music box that had once belonged to his mother, Salina, which lay in all its dusty glory on the mantelpiece above the fire, got him talking about his mother's family and his childhood back in Carvahall. He was not entirely certain how the subject segued from the sleepy little community he had once called home to his entire life story, but he supposed the progression was natural enough.

He told her everything, from his happiest memories of growing up a simple farm boy in the foothills of the Spine to the adventures he and Saphira had undergone since the hatching of her egg, sparing no little detail, no tiny tidbit, no matter how small or insignificant it may have seemed.

He found himself telling her, without ever really meaning to do so, the more troubling bits of information that had been revealed to him during the course of his and Saphira's adventures thus far. He even told her, without little more than a second thought, about whom his mother was and what his father had been, information he had had trouble telling his closest of friends and advisors.

Part of him, though, knew it was because Ophelia, the person he had originally thought so bigoted and hateful, would never judge him based solely on his heritage without her ever having to tell him so. He marveled at her open-mindedness, an all too uncommon quality, something most likely borne of having grown up unaware of the identity of her parents as well.

Ophelia, for her part, listened to him relate the tale of his life with rapt attention and little interruption, laughing at all the right places and looking at him with a deep, knowing sadness as he spoke of the hardships and loss he and Saphira had faced.

After his tales were utterly spent, she cautiously began to speak as well, talking mostly of her heritage, dwelling less on her newfound status as the daughter of an elfin princess and focusing instead on her parents' relationship.

"I suppose it was for the best they both died when they did," she opined softly, lying back against the pillows arranged at the head of his bed so she could view the night stars through the opening in the ceiling above.

"How do you figure?" Eragon asked incredulously, sitting down on the other side, trying in vain to look at her face which was hidden in shadows.

"What would have happened had they lived, Eragon?" Ophelia demanded quietly, not looking up. "How happy do you think the three of us would have been; my mother and I staying eternally young as the flame that was my father's life slowly extinguished before our very eyes? No—that would not have been a life worth surviving for."

"I…I have never thought of it that way…." Eragon replied slowly, letting the reality of her words sink in.

"No; I did not think you would. Most don't, you know," she said, though not unkindly.

"My mother was a fool for loving my father," she continued on, her tone one of bitterness and tragedy. "Anyone who allows themselves to love is a fool."

"Do not say that—don't ever say that," Eragon responded sharply.

"Why?" she demanded still refusing to meet his gaze. "What good did love do for my parents? What good did it do for your mother? Not all stories are meant for happily ever after, Eragon."

"And so you would allow the fear of an unhappy conclusion to keep you from the arms of the one you love?"

"Can you blame me?" she demanded incredulously, bolting upright and turning to face him, her back as straight and stiff as a poker. He could see the wild desperation on her face, its likeness to a caged animal increased manifold by her glowing cat-eyes, even through the inky darkness of the night, and it all but broke his heart. "Can you blame me for wishing to shield myself from the sadness and pain that comes with loss? I know it well, I have felt it all too acutely and I _never_ wish to have a new wound opened up beside all the others, and shall do everything—_everything—_in my power to prevent such a thing from happening!"

"I understand those sentiments more than words could ever express," he said gently. "Truly I do. My entire existence thus far has seemingly been nothing but a series of people coming into my life just long enough for me to start care for them before they are snatched away, leaving nothing but emptiness and guilt in their wake. Sometimes I start to think that maybe it is _my_ fault, that maybe I could do better by the people I have come to love by pushing them away, holding them at arms length just to keep them safe."

But time and experience has taught me that that is no solution at all, for it only causes more pain, to everyone involved. I know it is scary, and I know it is quite like leaping from the peak of a mountain without being certain that there is someone waiting to catch you at the bottom, but the only thing that can be done is to close your eyes, take the jump and enjoy the currents on the way down, for if you do not, you will regret it for all your days."

"That is a long time," she said softly, refusing to break his gaze.

"Aye," he replied softly. "It is."

-------

Eragon knew he should have sent Ophelia back to her own apartments the moment she began to nod off into slumber. But then again, knowing one should do something and actually bringing oneself to do it are two entirely separate things. So in the end, he had wound up allowing her to fall asleep in his bed, using her peaceful repose after their long journey as an excuse to not awaken her.

He was well aware that it was highly improper for her to even be there with him, lying barely a foot away from him in his large, comfortable bed, and the cautionary tale of her parent's forbidden relationship should have warned him away from any semblance of impropriety where Ophelia, the daughter of an elfin princess, and he, a mere human who was by chance a Dragon Rider, were concerned, but he was either too stupid or too defiant to let it.

What made it all the worse was the fact the even he had to admit that his reasons for not waking her were purely selfish: he wasn't entirely sure that he even _could_ fall asleep without the sound of her soft, even breathing to lull him into unconsciousness, contented by her very presence, something he had grown accustomed to on their journey to _Ellesmera_. So he simply did nothing but cover her with blankets and slip into bed a little ways away from her, propriety be damned.

Despite her comforting proximity, however, Eragon found himself unable to fall asleep, so he settled for regarding her slumbering countenance instead.

As he watched her sleep, thoughts of Angela's prediction that he would love a woman of uncommonly noble birth floated unbidden through his mind.

He had always thought that woman to be Arya, for she was an elfin princess and there were few nobler than that. It had broken his heart when she had rejected him, and he had despaired at having been fated to love one who would never return his ardor.

But what—what if Angela had not been referring to Arya, but rather Ophelia instead? Ophelia's heritage was just as noble—on her mother's side, at least. Evaria had been a princess of the elves as well, after all.

As for her father, Eragon had not been able to gather much in the way of factual information about him from the elfin court as the circumstances surrounding the man and the way in which he had wooed Ophelia's mother seemed a subject that was strictly taboo. From what he had overheard, however, he was able to surmise that he was a handsome human warrior, greatly admired for his courage and valor by both men and elves and had had the covetable title of 'elf friend' bestowed upon him by the late king, Ophelia's uncle. It would seem that his only mistake, and a fatal one at that, had been to fall madly in love with the king's sister and embark on an illicit love affair with her.

Even so, the fact remained that Ophelia was in possession of a rather illustrious bloodline, being the child of a great warrior and the fairest princess that had ever walked amongst the Fair Folk, if the stories of Evaria's great beauty, which she had, by all accounts, passed on to her daughter, were any indication.

_Could Ophelia be his great romance?_ he wondered.

He looked at the way the light of the sickle moon illuminated her smooth, unblemished alabaster skin as she slept. He couldn't remember a time when he had ever seen her look as peaceful or as beautiful as she did at that moment. But did he love her?

He certainly did not feel the same sensations around Ophelia as he had felt with Arya. It was at that moment, however, that Eragon realized for the first time that the thoughts and feelings he had had for Arya were those of blind admiration and the foolish infatuation of youth. To Eragon, Arya had seemed perfect; he had set her up in his mind as a goddess worthy of unconditional worship, his superior in every way. But however much it may have seemed like the real thing to his juvenile mind that was not true love. It was the ideal love that he had heard about in the fairy tales of his youth and read of in storybooks, the kind of love that does not truly exist.

Suddenly it all seemed so clear to him.

He was attracted to Ophelia because of the very fact that she was so _real_. She was wildly beautiful and strong and willful and infuriatingly contrary. She constantly challenged him and demanded explanations from him and frustrated him in more ways than one. But no matter what she had always treated him as her equal in every way, never making him feel inferior or like he was beneath her notice. She was truly the most remarkable being he had ever come across, and despite his lack of years that was saying quite a lot. And yet…

Eragon was not even entirely sure if he _liked_ Ophelia half the time. If this were the case, then how on Earth could he possibly _love_ her?

The last thought that passed through his mind before he fell asleep, however, was: _I do not know how or why, but I do. I love her._

_Thank the stars!_ came Saphira's deep growling voice in his mind, _He finally admits it! Now if we could just get the other one to do the same!_

_Huh,_ Vanilor grunted, broadcasting his thoughts so Eragon could hear as well, _Like dominos, the two-leggers fall into place, right where they belong. One strong gust of wind is all it will take for the other one to follow, my dear Saphira._


	13. Oromis

Eragon awoke the next morning to the sound of a soft but insistent knock upon the door to his tree home.

"Go 'way," he mumbled, rolling over onto his back and opening his eyes only to let out a groan when he was painfully blinded by the bright morning sunlight that streamed in through an opening in the leafy roof above. He briefly wondered how he and Ophelia, whose smooth, even breathing he could hear coming from somewhere a few inches to his left, had been able to sleep with the sun shining down on them the way it was.

Smiling to himself as he absentmindedly trundled out of bed and headed towards the door that led from the antechamber of his small apartments to the staircase that winded its way down to the base of the great tree his rooms were housed in. Running his hands through his sleep-mussed hair in an attempt to make the overgrown, dirty blonde locks lie flat for a change, Eragon stifled a yawn as he slid back the door to reveal a handsome young elf, slightly shorter than he and dressed in some sort of livery, standing on the other side.

The fair haired elf touched his index and middle fingers to his lips and had just begun the traditional elfish greeting when his smooth voice trailed off into nothingness as something he espied over Eragon's shoulder caught his eye and diverted his attention. Tossing a confused glance behind him, Eragon instantly felt that awful sinking feeling one gets when a situation that could have been avoided had you listened to reason turns disastrous.

He realized in that moment—a moment too late, as it were—that he had left the door to his bedchamber wide open, and as a result of his forgetfulness, everything inside, including a sleeping Ophelia peacefully reposing in his bed and, even more disastrously, the milky white expanse of Ophelia's exposed back, left bare by her evening gown, which she had fallen asleep wearing, could be easily seen from the doorway, giving the deceitful impression that not only was she asleep in his bed but entirely—_unclothed_—to boot.

Eragon felt his face burn a bright crimson that would have put the ripest of tomatoes to shame and he looked up to see the young elf's face flush a dusky red as his dark eyes slid from the bare-chested Rider before him back to the daughter of his peoples' most beloved princess where she lay asleep in the bed of an outsider, by all appearances as naked as the day she was born into this earth, before tearing themselves away and coming to rest on the wooden floor beneath his feet.

"_Osthato Chetowä_ (the Mourning Sage) has requested your presence this day before the sun has reached its highest phase in the sky," the elf said with considerable dignity, reclaiming his composure before Eragon had even summed up the situation. "You are to bring _du Filia du Arget Evarinya_."

Eragon would not have known whom the elf spoke of when he referred to 'The Daughter of the Silver Stars' had he not cast a pointed glance over Eragon's shoulder in the direction of Ophelia's bare back. Turning his attention to the elf once more to thank him for delivering Oromis's summons, Eragon found him gone—he had left without a sound.

Sighing as he gently closed the sliding door so as not to wake his fair guest, he began to idly wonder two things as he slowly made his way back into his bedchamber, his gaze never leaving Ophelia where she lay sleeping.

First, he wanted to know exactly when Ophelia had been gifted with the moniker of 'Daughter of the Silver Stars', as this was the first time he had ever heard her addressed as such. Honestly, did the elves just sit around, making up ostentatious titles on the off chance the daughter of their lost elfin princess turned up? If so, Ophelia's sudden appearance on the scene most be quite a boon for them, Eragon thought sourly.

His second, and assuredly more pressing concern lay with exactly how much his master's emissary had seen—or, how much his master's emissary had _thought_ he had seen, to be exact. What Eragon saw when he looked at the situation from the position of the flaxen-haired elf was far from encouraging. After all, it did look suspiciously like he and Ophelia had…that they had…done something—_untoward_, to put it mildly.

As he took slid into bed next to Ophelia to catch a few more hours of sleep before meeting with his master, Eragon took a moment to briefly consider whether the elf, whom he had spent mere minutes with, could be trusted not to broadcast what he had seen over _Ellesmera._

_Probably not,_ came the answer, but that did not prevent his exhausted body from succumbing to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow. After all, there was nothing he could do about it _now._

-----

"I daresay you do more for those clothes than I ever did," Eragon said boldly later on that morning, smiling crookedly at the sight of Ophelia dressed in a tunic and pair of breeches he had long since outgrown as she stepped out of the small washroom and back into his bedchamber.

When Eragon had awoken for the second time that day, he had done his best to swallow his embarrassment and go about the more important task readying himself and Ophelia to meet with Oromis. He had shaken her awake only after he had washed and dressed and rustled up something from amongst his old things for her to wear.

While she was dressing he had racked his mind an attempt to come up with a way to tell her what had transpired between himself and his master's messenger. In the end, however, he was unable to bring himself to tell her that at this very moment there were most likely rumors flying all around court as regards to their relationship, something he himself had difficulty defining. How could he, when things between them were going so well?

And besides, perhaps he could trust in the young elf's discretion. After all, a race that had been deemed the 'Fair Folk' couldn't have any interest in a subject as unsavory as petty gossip, could it?

Eragon turned his attention back to the present in time to see Ophelia flush prettily in response to his words. He even managed to catch of the small smile that flitted across her lips at his praise despite her attempt to hide it by looking away. His smile turned into a frown, however, when he noticed that she had left her hair in the same fancy knot that it had been put in the previous night's banquet.

"Perhaps you should braid your hair or something," he suggested thoughtfully as he crouched down to lace up his boots. "I do not think Master Oromis would like it very much were you to go to him with your hair styled in the fashionable ways of the court rather than a practical plait."

The mood in the room instantly changed from one of light humor to one of charged tension.

"Oromis is _your_ master, Eragon—_not_ mine," Ophelia said sharply. "He has no authority over Vanilor and I. We will accompany you and Saphira when you go to him because he has expressed a desire to meet us and to refuse would be rude."

"What is it that you are trying to tell me, Ophelia?" Eragon asked, his tone rising to match hers as his gaze shifted from his boots to her face. Honestly, he had no idea what to make of what she had said, so ludicrous were her words. Since when had Ophelia ever worried about _appearing_ rude? He would laugh were he not certain that she was completely and utterly serious!

"Nothing I have not attempted to make known to you before!" came her exasperated reply, her voice rising in frustration.

"Which would be what, exactly?" he demanded dangerously as he jumped to his feet, blood rushing to his face in anger.

"I did not _ask_ for you to take me here, Eragon, so don't you dare carry on as though I lured you into it under false pretenses!"

"Then why did you even bother coming at all?!"

"Surely you jest!" she cried with great incredulity, her eyebrows rising so high as to almost nestle in her hairline. "I was given a choice between remaining in Surda with your rebel queen and traveling with you to _Du Weldenvarden_. I chose the lesser of two unfavorable situations!"

"You had more than two options, Ophelia!" Eragon spat. "You are a Dragon Rider! If you despised being in the presence of Queen Nasuada as much as you say, you could have escaped or you could have left me on the road to _Ellesmera!_"

"I am still very weak from my ordeal, Eragon," she cried, her cheeks reddening; he could see how much it pained her to admit her own infirmity to him. "To have done either would have been a death sentence! If I had not died in the attempt to leave the Varden's camp—because you _know_ they would have never given me up without a fight—I surely would have perished soon after I made my escape from the exertion of it.

"And how could I have possibly left you?" she continued. "You were with me every moment of the day—even when you fought those awful creatures you sent me away with Saphira and stayed behind with Vanilor to ensure we could not escape!"

The accusation stung.

"That was not my motive, and you know it!" he snapped, attempting to hide his hurt behind a fresh surge of anger.

"I think myself well aware of your motives as of now!" she hurled back. "From the moment you first laid eyes on me you have dragged me across this godforsaken continent with you as your prisoner, no doubt hoping that my gratitude for your saving my life—and what a sham that life it is turning out to be!—would make me inclined to assist you in your—your _cause!_ Do you think me stupid just because I am young?"

"Prisoner?!" he returned incredulously, latching onto that one word while simultaneously ignoring all the others she had thrown at him. Somehow her referring to herself as his prisoner pained him far worse than her accusation had. He had come to think of Ophelia as a friend, a companion. It hurt that she apparently did not feel the same way at all, and felt no qualms about stating it openly.

"Aye, prisoner!" she yelled back. "And I will tell you one thing, Shadeslayer: if I wanted to be treated like a criminal, I would commit a crime!"

"So because you believe yourself my prisoner and thus hardly used you will get back at me by doing—what? Refusing Master Oromis's instruction?" Eragon demanded, floored at her audacity. "Everyone here will regard it as a sign of great disrespect!"

"It is less disrespectful than allowing him to waste his time teaching one who has no desire to learn from him!"

"What you desire does not matter! It is what is expected of you as a Dragon Rider!"

"Oh—forgive me," Ophelia shouted, her words laced liberally with derisive sarcasm. "I momentarily forgot that having a silver burn on one's hand means that person is required to give their loyalty to all who seek it—that is, as long as they serve the 'right' cause, just as you have done! I am not _you_, Eragon! I am not so easily swayed by arguments of what is right and what is wrong because, in case you haven't noticed, everyone has different ideas of what makes something right or wrong!"

"So you believe what is right is to allow a tyrant to remain in power?"

"Now you are putting words in my mouth! I have never said that!"

"No, but you have made it _very_ clear that you have absolutely no intention of doing anything to remove Galbatorix from the throne he has forcibly placed himself upon, which, in case _you_ hadn't noticed, is the same as consenting to his right to rule over Alagaesia!"

"Then I do not know why you risk your neck to topple him from power as the entire populace of Alagaesia seems willing to sit by and do nothing as well!"

Eragon recoiled as though she had physically struck him. Ophelia's face bore a look of grim triumph when she saw his reaction, for it seemed as though the point she had been trying to get across to him since their first argument on the rocks by the sea had finally hit home.

A lengthy silence followed this exchange while Eragon cast around his mind, attempting to think of something—_anything_—to say in reply. When he finally grasped upon a thought he looked her in the eye and said slowly and deliberately,

"And what of Gareth and Sophia? What of the people who took you in, cared for you as though you were their own daughter?"

"What of them?" Ophelia demanded, her tone dangerous, warning him to tread lightly on such a subject.

He didn't.

"You are not angered by what happened to them? You told me they were set upon by the Uruks, murdered on Galbatorix's orders because he discovered the heritage of the child they had taken in and that you were only saved from sharing their fate by the intervention of Vanilor! You do not want revenge for what was done to them?!"

"Yes I am angry! Yes I want revenge!" she screamed, her voice raw, her cat-like eyes wild; and though they had fought before, Eragon realized that this was the first time he had successfully provoked her into losing control of her emotions, a knowledge that did not satisfy his petulant pettiness as he had hitherto thought it would.

She blinked hastily, her breathing harsh and ragged, and after a brief struggle during which she successfully attempted to regain some semblance of control over herself, she continued, and though her tone was much quieter, the ice in it sent shivers down his spine.

"But going after Galbatorix will not restore them to me even should this endeavor—this work of fools that you have undertaken—prove successful. Nothing can bring them back. _Nothing._ Try as you may, you cannot raise the dead, Eragon, no matter how many perceived wrongs you believe you right or how many you kill in the name of vengeance. So do not try to use what happened to Gareth and Sophia to incite me into joining you out of passion born of rage. It is ill advised."

They stood standing their like that, stuck in stalemate until the fortuitous arrival of Saphira and Vanilor once again ended their argument before it could escalate any further.

-----

They flew from Eragon's tree home until Oromis's small hut came into view. Saphira angled herself to land in the clearing that abutted the old elf's small dwelling, and from the change in the air beside him, Eragon knew Vanilor was imitating the action.

Oromis and Glaedr stood side by side awaiting their arrival, and as soon as Saphira touched the ground, Eragon launched himself from her back to greet his master formally in the elfish fashion before moving forward to clasp Oromis by shoulders with. The old elf smiled fondly at his young student and returned the gesture of affection before Eragon, remembering his manners, turned to where Ophelia and Vanilor stood together and stepped aside so the two of them could come forward and greet the old Rider and his molten gold dragon.

As she greeted Oromis and Glaedr, Ophelia's beautiful, cat-like face remained as still and impassive as a marble bust aside from the small flicker of sadness Eragon saw in her eyes when she looked at the discolored stump where Glaedr's left foreleg had once been. Only a Rider could understand the agony such a disability would cause in a dragon, not only physically, but mentally as well.

After all of the formalities had been dispensed with, Oromis and Glaedr observed Ophelia and Vanilor silently for several moments as they had done with Eragon and Saphira the first time they had been presented to them. The young elf maiden and her black dragon stood up to the scrutiny with a steadiness of nerves truly remarkable, their faces devoid of any emotion.

At length, Oromis, careful not to let on how impressed he was by the young maiden and her black and silver dragon, commented, "You have hidden your existence uncommonly well, my young friends. No one has been able to either sense or feel the strength of your presence on this Earth. May I ask how long you have kept this secret?"

Eragon winced when he heard his master's question, thinking Oromis could not have chosen anything worse to ask, when one took into account Ophelia's aversion to any topics that involved her life before she had come crashing into his. She took so long in answering that Eragon began to worry that she would refuse to say anything at all.

However, she finally seemed to decide no harm could come of telling him. "It has been slightly less than twelvemonth since Vanilor hatched, I believe."

"A twelvemonth," Oromis repeated softly, taking in the information as he cast an appraising eye over Vanilor once more. "Your great size—and no doubt the strength to match—belies your age, young one. I have never in my advanced years met with a dragon so large, yet so young."

_And so very unusually marked,_ Glaedr commented thoughtfully, reaching out his golden nose to touch the long silver stripe that ran down the center of Vanilor's long, sable face.

Vanilor merely inclined his head in response to these remarks, his black gaze never leaving the wizened elf that crippled dragon that stood before him.

_Composition of steel, that one has,_ Eragon remarked to Saphira, shaking his head slightly, nothing short of astounded. He could not help but be amazed by Vanilor. Despite his youth, he seemed to approach every situation with either stone-cold indifference or ferocious rage, and this seemed to be no exception. He recalled with a faint smile how excited and playful Saphira had been when she had first met Glaedr; Vanilor, for his part, if any emotion or thought could be ascribed to his countenance it was that of disinterested boredom.

Oromis turned his attention to Ophelia. "I am sure you have already grown tired of hearing this, but you are the very image of Evaria. She was exceptional in almost every way, even for an elf. Glaedr was exceedingly fond of her company, though that may have been because she was a sight fairer than I."

Glaedr snorted indignantly at his Rider's remark. Oromis smiled and patted his golden neck to pacify him. "It is almost noon and I am sure you must be hungry. Come, Eragon; let us prepare a meal for our fair guest."

Eragon offered his aged mentor the support of his arm which the elf gladly took and then the two headed off into Oromis's small hut to gather a lunch of fruit and vegetables for themselves and Ophelia.

"I can see that something weighs heavily on your mind, my student," Oromis observed quietly after watching Eragon move mechanically about the hut for several minutes, preparing their lunch.

"I do not know what to think about anything anymore, _Ebrithil,_" Eragon said to Oromis as he sighed, rubbing his hand over his face as he sank into a wooden chair across from his master.

"I see," the old elf said quietly as he stood and took out three flagons of ice cold spring water. "And what could possibly be the cause of such unrest?"

Eragon automatically found himself looking out the window of the small cottage to where Ophelia sat cross-legged next to Glaedr watching Saphira and Vanilor stage a mock air battle above them, Vanilor's immense black wingspan casting dark shadows on the spectators below.

Eragon realized a moment too late (for the second time that day) that his master had followed his gaze out of the window and had seen it land pensively on the young elf maiden. His cheeks colored with embarrassment. Why, _why_, _why_ was he always allowing himself to be found out?

"Ah. I see. And how could a maiden you have known for little more than a few months cause such unrest in your mind?"

"Where should I begin?!" Eragon exclaimed. "She is wild and brash and shamelessly froward! We seem to be forever locked in opposition with one another! And every time I think we have reached an understanding, suddenly we are arguing once more! Then there is her blatant scorn for everything that I believe in, everything that I hold dear!"

"Ah. I believe I see the problem. She wants nothing to do with the Varden or the war against the Empire," Oromis replied knowingly.

Eragon looked at him from between his fingers and slowly nodded his head.

"And Vanilor—what does he have to say on the matter?"

"Her dragon?" Eragon asked, somewhat confused. "As far as I know they are of the same mind. But do not take my word for it; he never speaks with me if he can avoid it, and Saphira is very secretive about what they talk over when they are alone together."

Oromis said nothing, just sat there quietly as he thoughtfully considered Eragon's words.

"Why?" Eragon suddenly demanded loudly of no one in particular. "Why does she act this way? This is what we are meant to be! How can she resist fate?"

"I do not believe she is resisting her fate, Eragon," Oromis said quietly, "as much as she is trying to flee from it. In her eyes, fate is a destroyer. It tore apart her parent's lives to bring another Dragon Rider into the world, and fate almost allowed her to die so she would be put in your path. She is not ready to see that no matter how fast or far she runs, she will never escape what she is destined to be, for she will always run into herself. She knows this. Now she must accept it. Give her time. She will come around."

Eragon nodded. Oromis's words made sense, as they often did, but they did nothing to ease his already trouble-laden mind.

"There is something else I must tell you that I am afraid is of a more urgent nature," Eragon murmured, his face clouding over. He proceeded to tell Oromis of his brother Murtagh and his red dragon, Thorn.

"And the worst of it is, Murtagh told me…he told me that Galbatorix knows their names, their true names," Eragon finally finished despondently, concern making him look much older than his sixteen years.

"This is very grave indeed," Oromis said at length.

"What are we to do?" Eragon asked, crazing, at the moment, nothing more than his master's guidance.

"I do not yet know," the old elf admitted heavily before remaining silent for several long moments.

"Come, it is such a fine day. We shall take our meal outside," Oromis said, hanging back and motioning for Eragon to precede him out the door with their food. The old elf cast a look at the _fairth_ that hung on his wall before pausing on the threshold of his cottage to contemplate the scene that met his eyes.

_Take care,_ _Glaedr,_ the old elf said so only his golden dragon could hear. _You are standing beside creatures the likes of which Alagaesia has not seen in centuries. They truly are a magnificent sight._

_They are indeed. We have been waiting for them for a very long time, have we not?_ came the dragon's thoughtful response, as he furtively contemplated the Eragon, Ophelia, and their dragons.

_Aye, that we have, my old friend, that we have._

**A/N:** Happy Chapter Thirteen! It has been a long time in coming, some portions of this chapter being part of the original version of _Reluctance_, formerly on my computer under the very creative title of 'story', which is now over a year old. I apologise for the length of time that has elapsed since my last post, but finals, road trips, the start of the summer holiday and my fickle muse has left very little time for me to write/very little inspiration. I hope, however, that this is worth the wait! Comments and criticisms, as always, are not only welcome but very much appreciated!


End file.
